


Company

by Oplopanax



Series: Räajenboagen [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Arranged Marriage, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27478516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oplopanax/pseuds/Oplopanax
Summary: Tyson notices Nate’s shoulders; Nate manages not to come in his pants or say “I love you" and they grow a little closer.A scene from the first half of This Time Next Year, an AU where Tyson is an Omega in a world where that has religious meaning and he and Nate enter into a shotgun wedding without poor Nate ever getting to do it first.  Set between the last visit to town before the snow and Christmas.
Relationships: Tyson Barrie/Nathan MacKinnon
Series: Räajenboagen [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752910
Comments: 75
Kudos: 133
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callabang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callabang/gifts).



> For Callabang as part of Fandom Trumps Hate. I hope you like it - what an appropriate time to post it!

It didn’t snow, and it didn’t snow, and it didn’t snow, well into November. “It’ll all just dump at once,” Nate said gloomily, but while it held off there was a brisk trade in visiting among the farms, preparations for winter done and the brief moment seized while travel was still possible and there was time to spare. The cabin had never been so heavily trafficked. Tyson was excited and frightened by the visitors in equal measure and he was glad he’d had a chance to grow more used to Nate and accustomed to operating a little more independently before they started. He had learned, at Nate’s insistence, to tack up the horse and to load and shoot the rifle, and Nate had shown him how to get to the nearest neighbor, EJ; the absolute bare minimum, Nate said, to be safe alone during the day. During the day he was free to go outside as he liked, eat what he liked, do what he liked; Nate expected him to operate, not quite like an Alpha, oh, no, never that, but perhaps like a Reform wife, expressing preferences, making choices for himself, putting in a great deal of work but choosing when and how to do it and it made the day pass more easily. He rose when Nate did, to do his breakfast and dinner pail but then he was free to do what he liked until Nate was home for supper. Sometimes he made something fancy for supper, because he desired it; sometimes he fried eggs and a bit of ham because he had been asleep all afternoon, and either way Nate was happy. There was an awful lot of work on a farm, Tyson learned, a great deal more than in his old life, but a great deal more freedom too.

He had walked from the General Store to the MacKinnon house by himself on their last visit to town; and he had begun experimenting with occasionally telling Nate ‘no’, just to see what would happen. _Nothing had happened_ ; or at least Nate had looked at him oddly when he declined the last piece of pie but then snatched it, or when he said ‘no’ in the middle of kissing but nothing more than that. He learned to bank the fire properly, how to indicate to Nate he’d like to be kissed, how to, very timidly at first, indicate he’d like _not_ to be kissed, but to be left alone to feel gassy and nauseated with pregnancy, how to stretch out beans to make a meal when there wasn’t any meat, and how to trust Nate not to hit him, at least for little, daily annoyances. Obviously Nate was still responsible for major discipline, though they had carried on so happily there had been no need of it yet. 

He had learned many things. He learned not to walk behind the cow, which had kicked him a good one high on the upper thigh to assist him in retaining the lesson; Nate had blanched and looked shaken as he scrambled to pick Tyson up from where he had fallen, patting at his middle and asking if he was _sure_ he was alright. Nate had made him lie down for the afternoon, a very boring thing to do when he was perfectly well but Nate wouldn’t hear any different and had insisted on carrying him to the house which would have been romantic, perhaps, had Nate not made a loud _oofing_ noise as he deposited Tyson on the bed. Tyson tried to get back up after a bit but Nate had asked him as a personal favour to promise truthfully to stay in bed while Nate went back to the barn to finish the milking and Tyson, famed back home for his contrary nature, had somehow found this persuasive. He had stayed faithfully in bed waiting for Nate to come back and then when he did there had been another round of patting and fussing. Tyson, at Nate’s request, had shyly shown him the bruise on his leg, rather more leg than Nate had ever been privy to seeing before, and even let him rub liniment on it **,** Nate’s fingers trailing high over his leg and tracing the shape of the welt where it reached down into his inner thigh, just below where his drawers had been pushed up and skirting the slit across them that allowed him to use the privy; Nate grew rather red faced and had to rush back out to the barn for something but when he returned he made them fried potatoes and sausage, which Tyson was astounded to learn Nate knew how to do, and large cups of milky tea and they ate in bed, which was nice. Tyson didn’t like to embroider, or do hand lace, or any of the little seated skills a lady or Omega should enjoy but Nate didn’t care so when Tyson grew fractious at the forced stillness Nate just carried him most unnecessarily to the chair closest to the stove and gave him a book to read aloud. And that was how they discovered Nate liked when Tyson read to him and Tyson discovered he liked it when Nate looked at him admiringly and then it was bedtime but they were both enjoying the book so they indulged themselves and had another chapter in bed, a shocking spendthrift use of lamp oil but they had a good time. They had a good time together a lot. It was surprising, Tyson thought, but Nate was such an agreeable man, he supposed anyone would have a good time with Nate. It was gratifying to have such a satisfactory husband, and one who so plainly found Tyson satisfactory in return.

Injuries aside he had grown stronger and tougher and he was settling into his new life happily. He enjoyed the peace of the farm, climbing into bed with Nate every night and cuddling up to him, eating as much as he wanted, and just generally having no cause for alarm. But sometimes he felt he might like a little more company; back in the time before he was married at all he had been known for his social nature. Omegas could only have so many visitors or appear so friendly; they must always be conscious of their Integrity, and of the value of their attendance at any party or dinner, but still, he had had social obligations, events and teas and suppers to attend to promote his father’s business, a young, beautiful Omega always a boon even if it was Tyson, so often saying or doing the wrong thing, and the religious life of the Community was a busy one. There was _Fastmolkje_ to attend every week night, church on Saturday, church three times on Sunday, and of course Jamie; always Jamie, going back and forth from one house to the other. It had been a constrained life but within those constraints he had always had many friends and acquaintances; now he only had Nate. Sometimes he was a little lonely, but he was also a little scared of any strangers, still, and he was glad he had Nate to peek out from behind.It was frightening dealing with strangers; it would have been worse had he not had Nate, who was very forgiving about Tyson’s mistakes.

He’d lead an entirely different life back home, clear on the rules even if he didn’t always follow them, cloistered but still social in a way the people here couldn’t be with their hard scrabble lives, separated by the size of their farms and the small Denver community. Back in Victoria, the social round of a wealthy, unmarried Omega meant he’d undertaken daily obligations, walking out at nine am, dinner with Jamie, charitable visits and receiving at home in the afternoon, supper, commonly with guests, and then Church in the evening. Then after his marriage there had been months of isolation and Noble Silence, or at least his failed attempt at it. Here, on the other hand, Tyson was expected to talk to these strangers, English words that still felt frightening and unfamiliar sometimes, expected to answer personal and invasive questions like ‘When’s the baby coming?’ without Nate’s assistance, expected to navigate being in a small room and serving men unaware of Bodily Integrity rules. On the other other hand, no one had smacked Tyson in months, he could go outside freely and he had been alone so long he was eager for any novelty, at least so long as Nate was there too. 

The first visitors were a crowd of young men passing through en route to Kansas City and still overly jolly on home brew from the night before. Tyson came on them in the front yard when he went to feed the chickens early in the morning; laughing, they milled around him on their horses, calling out greetings and when he froze, frightened, one leapt to the ground and tried to catch his hand. Tyson snatched it away and the young man hooted and then aimed a swat at Tyson’s ass. Tyson dodged to one side but then froze again, panicked; luckily Mr. Johnson arrived at that moment and rode hard into the yard. “Fuck off, all of you!” he shouted, slapping at their horses. “Can’t you see you’re scaring him? Go on!” he yelled, kicking at the man nearest Tyson, and Tyson simply stood there trying not to cry as they rode past him, still laughing. Nate arrived at a dead run seconds later and grabbed Tyson by the arm to examine him for damage. 

“Hey!” Nate yelled after the men, but they were far away and didn’t even turn at his shout. He turned to Tyson. “You alright?” Nate said angrily, and Tyson nodded silently. He had clearly not handled that correctly but he was at a loss as to what he _should_ have done. 

“He’s fine, but he needs to be tougher,” Mr. Johnson said disdainfully as he rode towards the barn. “That was just Olson and his cousins, they weren’t going to _do_ anything.” Tyson wasn’t so sure of that. They weren’t going to do anything to Mr. Johnson, that he believed. What would they have done if Tyson had been alone? He didn’t know.

“Leave him be, Erik,” Nate said and waved Mr. Johnson on. Mr. Johnson rolled his eyes but rode by and Nate continued his inspection, which felt very much like a cuddle. “He’s right though,” Nate said, evidently satisfied Tyson was intact. “I can’t always be there and you need to start being tougher.” He had one arm around Tyson’s shoulders and his tone was gentle and blunted the sting of the criticism but Tyson still felt it and was sorry not to be what Nate wanted. In his previous life an Omega would never, ever have been alone with a group of unrelated men, or ventured alone outside, or spoken to an Alpha not related to them and he was at a loss when confronted by a pack of drunk young men.

“What was I supposed to do, though, Alpha?” he whispered back. He’d have dodged if he’d known ass slapping was likely, or hidden if he’d seen the young men before they were practically at the door, but barring that, what could he do?

“Hit them,” Nate said, as if the answer was obvious. “Give them some smart talk and then if they try to touch you, give them a whack. Ma keeps a wooden spoon in her apron pocket just for that.”

“I can’t hit them!” Tyson said, shocked.

“You can, though,” Nate said, placidly. “Or at least give it back to them. Tell them to fuck off.”

“I’m not allowed to do that,” Tyson said. He wasn’t. Was he?

“I’m telling you you _are_ ,” Nate said. “You can do whatever you have to.”

“But if I hit them, they’ll hit me back and they’re stronger,” Tyson said.

“That’s why you’ve got to hit them _really hard_ the first time,” Nate said. “Make yourself more trouble than it’s worth.” Tyson, who had devoted a lifetime to being more trouble than he was worth, at least by his parent’s reckoning, didn’t see how this was going to improve matters but kept his silence and Nate seemed to think the matter closed. The event left Tyson disquieted but he had no time to mull it over. On Mr. Johnson’s heels appeared another tall blond man who Nate introduced from a distance as Mr. Rantanen and then they all ignored Tyson entirely while they winterproofed the barn. Late in the day they finally came inside for dinner and sat while Tyson served. He was nervous at the presence of a stranger but resolved to do better and not be afraid, or at least not to show it. 

_“Littoo,”_ Mr. Ratanen said, twisting his hat and looking very young and very blond. “ _Sateenkaari._ I never thought I would meet one of you. _Hei._ ” 

“ _Hej_ , Alpha,” Tyson said, which was as much Swedish as he knew.

“I’m Finnish,” Mr. Rantanen said, “not Swedish.” All Tyson knew about the Finns was that they were terribly non religious heretics - the entire country was nominally Reform but that was intermingled with a strong thread of traditional belief unchanged in thousands of years. “I’m Finnish,” Mr. Ranatanen said again, this time to Nate, as if this should have some meaning for him. 

It plainly didn’t; Nate was busy scrubbing at his hands in the washing bucket, and didn’t respond except to bark “Don’t touch him!” Nate was irritable and hungry; he was still grouchy about the attempted ass slapping and when they had started on the barn he had promptly hammered his thumb first thing. Five minutes later he’d jammed an enormous splinter under the nail of the same thumb, so large it had come out the other end of the nail and he’d had to be held down by Mr. Rantanen while Alpha Johnson made insulting remarks and yanked it back out with a pair of pliers. Once he was done rolling on the ground moaning and cursing fate, Nate had grown unreasonably insistent about finishing the roof before they broke and so made dinner late. He was not a natural carpenter and was more hinderance than help but didn’t appreciate it being pointed out, and Mr. Johnson had pointed it out several times, gleefully.

“I’m not going to touch him, MacKinnon,” Mr. Rantanen said, still staring at Tyson “I know how to behave. I’m not going to have him turn my luck.”

“Well, your luck is in now,” Nate said, coming to the table. “Tys is a great cook.”

“It’s a Blessing to be received in the house of the _Sateenkaari_ ,” Mr. Rantanen said, totally sincere, although Mr. Johnson made a rude noise and looked pointedly at his empty plate. “Thank you.”

“Sure, right,” Nate said, still grouchy. “Tys, what are we waiting for?”

“Sorry, Alpha,” Tyson said, approaching with the large serving dishes. 

Nate absolutely would not allow Tyson to use formal service with any visitors, serving each man individually as was proper for an Omega. “No one here’s used to it and they’ll think I’m treating you like a servant or such,” he’d said the day before. “Just dish it up like everyone else and that’ll be good enough,” so Tyson obediently set the serving platters on the table - baked squash and a large dish of spaetzle with farmer’s sausage and schmaundt fat - and then hovered by the table uncomfortably, holding the tureen of pea soup. He really felt he should be serving them more formally, but he took Nate’s point. They’d probably think it was odd and he doubted any of them understood how to receive formal Omega service, with their arms properly still on the table, completely unmoving to prevent any accidental contact. It would doubtless just end up a mess.

“What the hell is this?” Nate said, poking at the spaetzle, suspicious as always of anything unfamiliar. Normally he might have phrased it more nicely than that, but he was still irritable about the splinter and snappish. That was about as grouchy as Tyson had ever seen him be, barring dislocated shoulders or people touching Tyson, but Tyson was used to him now and so he just nudged the dish towards Nate. He wasn’t going to cross Nate in public but he knew Nate would like it if he’d try it.

“Hmmph,” Nate said suspiciously, but he took a helping and then passed the dish around.

“Spaetzle,” Mr. Johnson said approvingly as he served himself most of the remaining noodles. “Good. I’ll have it if you won’t MacKinnon.“ Nate just narrowed his eyes but didn’t rise to the goad. Instead he busied himself piling butter on his baked squash. Mr. Rantanen looked worried; he was staring at the decimated spaetzle dish and then glancing at Tyson, but sidelong, as if he was hesitant to look directly at him.

“MacKinnon,” he finally said. “Mac. Has the _Sateenkaari_ eaten yet?You going to let him eat?”

“ _Let_ him,” Nate said. “You can hardly _stop_ him.” Mr. Johnson snorted and continued to ingest spaetzle rapidly. “He already ate,” Nate said irritated. “You ate, right?’ he said to Tyson and Tyson bobbed his head, nervously. He hadn’t wanted to wait so he’d had a luxurious three course meal of spaetzle alone at dinner time; spaetzle with lashings of butter and cheese, spaetzle with schmaundt fat, and finally spaetzle with more butter and a little cinnamon and sugar. It was an awful lot of spaetzle, and he’d had to lie down and have a little nap to recover.

“I already ate, Alpha,” he whispered. “I hope that was alright.”

“Of course that was alright,” Nate said, still scowling. “What did I tell you?”

“To eat what I like,” Tyson said, hoping he was providing the right answer. He didn’t think Nate would discipline him if he was wrong but he didn’t want to chance it in front of these two Alphas. 

“OK then,” Nate said. “So why does Mikko think I’m starving you?”

“Oh,” Tyson said, “I don’t think - “ but now Rantanen had started he couldn’t seem to stop.

“It’s not that you’re _starving_ him,” he said, “it’s that he needs to eat first, or the food isn’t blessed.” He cast another look at the serving dish. “And there isn’t enough left for him, anyway, so _I_ can’t eat, and you two shouldn’t have. Don’t you have any manners?”

“No,” EJ said, totally unconcerned. “Food tastes fine even without a blessing.”

“What happens if the food isn’t blessed?” Nate asked, still grouchy but looking curious. 

“Your luck turns,” Mikko said with the air of a man providing information Nate should already have. “Your milk goes sour, you put a pitchfork through your foot and take blood poisoning, your wife can’t bear.”

“And what happens if the food _is_ blessed?” Nate asked.

“Your crops flourish, your children are strong. You know,” Mikko said. “Everything within his purview goes well, all the household things.”

“He’s not _magic_ ,” Nate said doubtfully. “He doesn’t control people’s luck.”

“Close enough,” Mr. Rantanen said but Nate looked doubtful. “The Swedish don’t believe and look what happened to his last husband.” EJ made an extremely rude noise of amusement. “He stays in your house so long as you treat him kindly,” Rantanen went on. “If you don’t honour him, he goes, and takes your luck with him.”

“Goes where?” Nate asked and Tyson was puzzled by how seriously he was taking it.

“Goes to another house,” MIkko said. “Goes where he likes; anyone will take him, since he brings luck.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Nate said, a little defensive. “He’s not a house fairy, to flit here and there. And we’re married.” 

“That won’t stop him,” Mikko said slowly, as if Nate was very stupid. “He’s Omega. The _Sateenkaari_ goes where he likes. Look at him. He could walk out the door to another man right now. The whole town’s talking about it - anyone would take him.” Nate’s eyes narrowed and he looked suspiciously between EJ and Mikko, as if they were likely to make a play for Tyson right there; EJ rolled his eyes at him and continued to eat spaetzle. Mikko looked pointedly at at anything but Tyson and Nate settled back, looking thoughtful.

“We’re married,” Nate said again. “That isn’t how it works here.”

“If you keep the _Sateenkaari,_ ” Mikko said very seriously, “you keep him through kindness. Not law.”

“He’s fine,” Nate said, dismissing Mikko’s concerns. “He always eats first and I treat him well and he’s not going anywhere.” Mention of Tyson’s first husband and possible subsequent ones had Nate scowling again and he pulled his plate towards him and scowled at it. Nate took a bite of the squash and froze. “Does this squash have mustard in it?” he asked Tyson.

“Yes,” Tyson said. A bit of mustard was inoffensive, surely?

“Fucks sake,” Nate said rudely and shoved the squash aside. Later Tyson would learn mustard was Nate’s one pet hate, but right then he stepped forward quickly, thinking there was something wrong with the dish. 

“Is it bad, Alpha?” he asked, peering at the bowl. It was hard to imagine going too wrong with baked squash, so long as it wasn’t burnt.

“It’s fine,” Nate grunted in a tone that strongly suggested it wasn’t but he didn’t care to discuss it and Tyson cringed but dropped the subject. He was embarrassed at the thought that he had produced two sub par dishes his Alpha didn’t care for in front of company but tried to hide how anxious he was.

“Sorry,” Tyson said, flustered. “Sorry Alpha.” He moved quickly to put the soup on the table, thinking at least that Nate would like; the ladle, protruding from the bowl, caught on his shirt as he bent to put it down and threatened to flip out of the tureen, taking the lid with it. Nate shot his hand out to catch it and everything went to hell. Later Tyson would realise Nate had just been trying to help but right then, unnerved by Nate’s atypical grumpiness and the events of the morning and the hand swinging at him, he shrieked and tried to dodge what seemed like a slap. Unfortunately he was still holding the tureen; there was some frantic flailing as he over balanced but to no avail and the end result was pea soup everywhere and the tureen on the floor, broken, Tyson fallen beside it. He looked up at the wreckage of the meal and Nate, covered in soup and turning very red and tight lipped, and then burst into tears. He’d been getting very prone to tears lately, where before he’d been able to stay silent even during discipline, but this knowledge did nothing to help him stop crying. Mr. Rantanen and Nate stared back at him and then Nate pushed his chair back violently and stood. He was covered in steaming soup from chin to knees and he didn’t look very pleased about it.

“Got a little soup on you, there,” Mr. Johnson said, still placidly eating, evidently unmoved by the anger Nate was radiating. “Not sure you noticed - just a drop.”

“Fuck _off_ , Erik,” Nate snapped and reached for Tyson. Quick as lightening Mr. Rantanen lunged forward and swatted Nate’s hand out of the air.

“Hey,” he said, looking very nervous but continuing. “He’s the _Sateenkaari_ and I’m not going to sit here and watch you whack him.” Mr. Johnson was watching them closely but never stopped eating. Nate narrowed his eyes at Mr. Rantanen but didn’t swat back at him. Tyson thought abstractedly that was very kind of Mr. Rantanen; he was younger even than Nate and clearly intimidated by him, but he had still tried to stop him.

“‘Kay,” Nate said slowly. “Well, you’re in luck then, because I’m not going to whack him.” He reached out for Tyson’s wrist again and drew him carefully to his feet. “You all right?” he asked.

“I’m _fine_ , Alpha,” Tyson said, but he couldn’t seem to stop crying, somehow, and he was working himself into a real state, crying and gasping and doubtless just looking a mess. He didn’t know why he was so tearful; whatever Nate was going to do to him would be minor compared to Community discipline, especially as Nate was so solicitous of the baby, but he was still crying and he needed to _stop_. Crying during discipline meant double discipline and he wasn’t sure if Nate followed that rule but he didn’t care to find out. He pulled up his apron and tried to hide behind it under the guise of mopping his face but Nate pulled it back down, very gently. 

“Come on,” he said, softly. “Come sit down. I’m sorry I scared you.” He tried to guide Tyson to a chair at the table but Tyson went to his knees before they got more than a step. He had embarrassed Nate in public and he knew he needed to apologize in public also. 

“I’m sorry I’m so clumsy, Alphas,” Tyson began, “I’m sorry I failed in my duty and I’m sorry I’m so stupid, and I accept your discipline.” He tried to gather himself to get through the required verse for a serious offense. “ _That servant, which knew his lord's will, and prepared not himself, neither did according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes_ ,” he said and and then he closed his eyes and waited. He swiped at the tears that continued to flow down his face and wished he had a handkerchief to hand. Absently he noticed his breathing was oddly fast and panicked and he wondered why that was.

Nothing happened for a long time and finally he opened his eyes again. When he chanced a glance up, Nate was looking back down at him, seeming at a loss and the other two men were staring at Nate. There was a ringing silence in the room. “I’m ready, Alpha,” Tyson said. Couldn’t they just get it over with? Mr. Rantanen had already signalled he was some kind of European free thinker and wasn’t going to participate but obviously Nate was going to wantto regain some face. He had said he wasn’t going to whack Tyson and he was generally truthful so Tyson imagined some more drawn out discipline, possibly kneeling on the kindling for the fire, or perhaps, as they would need him to serve the rest of the dinner, a couple quick blows with a birch twig, or simply Nate slapping his hands and he was eager to get it over with. It was strange, but not having been disciplined for so long had made him _less_ tolerant of it than more; he was quite afraid, which seemed odd. He didn’t recall feeling like this before. Normally he was simply angry when faced with the need to submit himself to discipline but perhaps the difference was Nate. Nate was so kind, Tyson genuinely wanted to please him, which hadn’t been the case before. Mr. Johnson’s presence was also worrying; he was much less familiar and from what Tyson had seen of him he was brusque and abrupt. Still, presumably Nate’s presence meant Mr. Johnson would stop once Tyson was down, and he had every intention of hitting the floor at the first blow. 

Finally, oddly, it was Alpha Johnson that spoke. “What are you ready for?” he asked Tyson and Tyson took a deep breath and tried to answer, lest they all get angrier. 

“Whatever discipline you think is necessary, Alpha,” he said thickly. Of course he was waiting for discipline, what else could it be? Mr. Johnson looked at Nate with surprise. 

“Why’s he so nervous?” he asked. “What you been up to?” 

“Nothing,” Nate said, bristling but Mr. Johnson didn’t seem to find this totally persuasive. 

“Alpha MacKinnon’s been very kind,” Tyson whispered, glancing at Nate, hoping this wasn’t telling on him; he didn’t want Nate displeased at this exposure of his softness, but oddly Nate was just nodding along, as if he agreed, although he wasn’t sure Alpha Johnson took his meaning. He was looking at Nate with surprise. “And I apologize for taking advantage of that and forgetting myself now and I accept your discipline, all of you.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know about _that_ ,” Mr. Johnson said. “Who normally disciplines you then?”

“I, well, the Community, Alpha,” Tyson said, puzzled. Any Alpha within arm’s reach was deputized to discipline an Omega, at least back home, although certainly someone Tyson’s age shouldn’t need it.

“And _how_ do they discipline you?” Mr. Johnson said, and Tyson’s eyes shot to Nate.

“Tell him,” Nate said quietly.

“Usually one across the face, Alpha,” Tyson said, not bothering to lie as Nate already knew from their meeting with Alpha Duchene. “But as you like, of course.” He _hoped_ , between Nate and Mr. Rantanen, Mr. Johnson would be limited to just the one blow. He started to hyperventilate again at the thought. The last time he had been disciplined Alpha Landeskog had inadvertently knocked him down the stairs, causing the bruises that were just barely gone.

“Jesus, bud,” Alpha Johnson said to Nate, sounding very surprised. “You’re not fetching him upside the head, are you? Not while he’s pregnant. I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“For godssakes, Erik,” Nate said. “Of course I’m not. He thinks _you’re_ going to. Where he comes from everyone does.” He leaned forward and whispered in Mr. Johnson’s ear. Tyson couldn’t make out most of it but he caught the words, “Ma said” and “covered in bruises”.

“Nate,” Mr. Johnson said in a strange rough tone, as if he were distressed although Tyson didn’t know what he had to be distressed about. Maybe the prospect of waiting for his dinner? He jerked his head towards the bedroom. “Take him out and let him calm down. I thought you were overstating it, but no - this ain’t right.” 

Nate gave him a look, as if to say _I told you so_ , then sighed. “Yeah,” Nate said and Tyson didn’t really know what he was agreeing to. What wasn’t right? Tyson had apologized correctly, he knew, there remained only the discipline. “Up you come,” Nate said to Tyson, getting one hand under his armpit, lifting him easily back to his feet and ushering him towards the bedroom.

“Be nice,” Mr. Johnson added, and Nate just looked back at him dismissively. Nate was always nice, Tyson thought. He didn’t need to be told to be.

“MacKinnon,” Mr. Rantanen said, hesitantly. “Are you…”

“He isn’t going to hit him,” Mr. Johnson said, as if it wasn’t anything to him one way or another. “He just didn't want us to watch him baby talking. Pass the squash.”

“I’m not baby talking anyone,” Nate said with dignity, marching Tyson into the back room and sitting them on the bed and then, frankly, baby talking to him with one arm over his shoulders, their heads close together. “You alright?” he asked again in a soft voice and Tyson just nodded, still snivelling. “You sure you aren’t hurt?” Nate said. “Didn’t hurt yourself none when you fell?”

“No, Alpha,” Tyson whispered, thick voiced. He appreciated Nate’s thoughtfulness in taking him away before disciplining him. He hated being disciplined in public like a child. Nate really was awfully kind and Tyson wasn’t going to give him any trouble. He would take his discipline meekly, not put up any fuss. He’d always been prone to public disaster but this was an especially bad one even for him and he felt bad about shaming Nate; his apology had been sincere, not normally the case. 

“Alright,” Nate said, standing up to change his shirt, “Hang on.” He stripped off his shirt and used it to wipe most of the pea soup off his pants, and then he stood in front of Tyson shirtless, hands on hips, looking down at him. 

Tyson just hung his head and refused to look up; he had managed to stop crying, at least. Mostly, anyway. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he said again. “I didn’t mean to drop it and embarrass you and I appreciate you not disciplining me in public, thank you.”

“Ah, God, this again,” Nate said. “I don’t know how many times I got to say it, I’m not going to hit you and I’m not going to let anyone else hit you either.” He knelt down and put his hands on Tyson’s knees, so he could duck down and look up into Tyson’s face. “Don’t _cry_ ,” Nate said. “It’s just soup, everyone drops things, I’m not going to whack you for it.” He sat down next to Tyson and put his arm around him again, peeking down to look at his face where his head hung, staring at his hands. “You want to lie down?” Nate asked, and Tyson shook his head miserably. He couldn’t imagine lying on the bed, pretending to sleep while the men discussed how useless he was in voices he could doubtless hear from the bedroom. He tried to slow his breathing down but he wasn’t having much luck. It still came out gaspy and jerky.

“You’re bent right out of shape,” Nate said kindly and pulled Tyson onto his lap.It was ridiculous and child like and he did feel like a child, being spoken to so gently, but he didn’t resent it. He sort of liked it; it certainly had the virtue of novelty and made him feel safer, wrapped up in Nate’s arms. “I’m not going to hit you,” Nate said, and Tyson was silent. **__**_This time_ , Tyson amended silently. Nate wouldn’t discipline him this time and he was grateful for it but that would change, he knew. Eventually Tyson would do something so awful Nate would have to discipline him.

“Hey, come on,” Nate said and tipped them sideways onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Tyson. “We’re going to lie here for five minutes and then get up and finish dinner. We finished the barn so all we got left to do is have dinner and say goodbye to EJ and Mikko.” Nate was whispering into Tyson’s ear and running his hand slowly, calmingly, up and down Tyson’s arm and then he intertwined his fingers with Tyson’s so he was lying pressed up against him and holding hands. “But first you need to calm down. You think you’re feeling fraught because of the baby?”

“Don’t know Alpha,” Tyson said, and that was the truth. He definitely did feel fraught about the baby, on the rare occasion he allowed himself to think about it, but he was also sort of a naturally fraught person, so it was hard to say. 

“Mmm,” Nate said consideringly. “Well, it’s not good for pregnant people to get so wound up. We’ll get rid of those two and I’ll do the stock, and then maybe you can lie down for a little while - no, you don’t like to lie down alone, do you?” Tyson was surprised to realise Nate had noticed how much Tyson liked company, at least company he wasn’t scared of, like Nate. “How about a walk instead?” Nate said. “We’ll let supper wait a bit and have a walk together, down to where the wild asparagus grows. It looks real pretty right now, with all the red berries. And then we’ll have supper, and I’ll help you with the dishes and then we’ll put out all the lanterns and go to bed.”

This very mundane list, or maybe the cuddling and petting, was having a soporific affect on Tyson. His breathing had slowed down to normal and he laid calmly in Nate’s arms. He wasn’t purring but he thought he might, if they stayed here long enough. “Alright Alpha,” he said. “There’s not enough dinner left though, I’ll have to do some more.”

“I’ll do some chops,” Nate said, and he seemed unconcerned at the thought of cooking when an Omega was present to do the work instead and of being _seen_ cooking when an Omega was present. “That’ll be enough with what’s left. Is there dessert?”

“Molasses cake,” Tyson said, shamelessly lying. He had made that for supper but figured he’d better bring it out now, all things considered. 

“Nice,” Nate said approvingly. “That’s what we’ll do then, that sound good to you? We’ll go back out and finish dinner then we’ll have our walk.” Tyson nodded obediently. It did sound good to him, something simple and undemanding. “And I’m going to hold your hand and tell you how pretty you are the whole way,” Nate said and Tyson laughed. It sounded like they were a courting couple. “We’re going to have a good time,” Nate said, still in that calm voice, as if it were nothing to him if Tyson embarrassed himself and Nate in front of other Alphas. “And you're going to try to stop apologizing all the time, alright?”

“Alright,” Tyson said, gulping. He would have agreed to anything Nate said. “Sorry.”

“Not a strong start,” Nate said, but he sounded happy enough,as if his plan pleased him as well, and maybe it did. Nate didn’t ask for much, Tyson knew. A good supper, good company, a bit of a book read to him, one glass of beer or a smile; any of these seemed to please him inordinately. If Nate didn’t want Tyson apologizing, he would try not to.

“You don’t need to be so afraid of me either,” Nate said softly. “Maybe soon you won’t be so afraid, hey?”

“You’ve been very kind,” Tyson said, and he believed it. Nate _had_ been very kind and evidently Tyson wasn’t going to be disciplined, which he deeply appreciated. He didn’t know why Nate made a sour face and put his hand over Tyson’s mouth.

“Hush up,” Nate said. “I was a grouch all day and then I was pissy to you about the squash and and then you fell apart because you were afraid. That’s not so kind as all that.” Tyson opened his mouth to argue and then shut it and Nate laughed and took his hand away. “Let’s talk about something else,” he said. “What’s for supper?”

“Red flannel hash,” Tyson said very quietly to match Nate’s tone. Nate grunted approval. “And cabbage, and more molasses cake.”

“Don’t let EJ eat all the cake,” Nate murmured. “Better just serve half.”

“Alright Alpha,” Tyson said. He had already thought of that. 

“One more minute and we’ll go,” Nate said, turning so they faced each other, still lying down. They laid there looking at one another, the bedclothes warm beneath them and Nate’s hand holding Tyson’s against his chest. Tyson watched Nate’s face intently, trying to understand his expression; Nate looked at him so softly, he couldn’t suss out what was behind it.

Finally Nate lifted one hand and brushed a knuckle across Tyson’s cheek, then kissed him gently on the forehead. He whispered, “Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, Alpha,” Tyson said. Nate looked directly into his eyes, opened his mouth, looked considering, made a strange face and then shut it again. Nate really could make very odd faces, Tyson thought.

“I hate mustard,” Nate finally said after a long pause. “Can we not have mustard anymore?”

“Alright,” Tyson said, half asleep, drifting happily in his embrace. They laid there silently for much longer than a minute then Nate turned to sit up.

“Come on,” Nate said and Tyson buried his face in his neck. He was embarrassed but he wasn’t going to cross Nate, who had been so kind to him. “Come on,” Nate said again, urging him to his feet. “Rantanen’s going to think I’m thumping you if you don’t come back out. Come sit with us and we’ll have hot chocolate.” Tyson sniffled a little but his ears perked up. He had recently been introduced to hot cocoa with milk, or even better, top of the pan cream or condensed milk, and he was passionately fond of it. The Observant only made it with water and Omegas rarely got it anyway, chocolate being frivolous and over heating the blood, but clever Nate had bought a tin of the expensive treat on the last trip to the General Store, hoping to tempt Tyson’s appetite.

“After they’re gone?” Tyson whispered, not wanting to share either the chocolate or the condensed milk, and Nate laughed.

“Sure thing,” he said, and stood up to find a shirt.

***

“Spaetzle?” Mr. Johnson said, pushing the dish towards Tyson sympathetically, or at least as sympathetic as he ever got, and just that little gesture undid Tyson and his bottom lip started to wobble again. Alpha Johnson looked alarmed and slid the bowl back away but Tyson shot his hand out and caught it. Maybe a littlespaetzle would do him good, he thought, picking up Nate’s fork and setting to while Nate made a start on the pork chops. Nate was no cook but even he couldn't mess up chops too badly and Tyson watched as he made his way through Nate’s abandoned plate. Nate started the chops on an extremely low flame, which Tyson could have told him wasn’t the way to do it - in fact, Tyson would have told him they were better off in the oven, but he wasn’t going to correct Nate in front of the other Alphas - but Mr. Johnson didn’t seem to have the same compunctions. He looked suspiciously at what Nate was doing and then stood up and walked over to the stove. “You need a high heat for that,” he said, trying to pull the fork out of Nate’s hand so he could take over.

“No,” Nate said, yanking the fork back. “Mikko, come over here and tell EJ I know how to cook.” What made Nate think Mr. Rantanen knew how to cook Tyson didn’t know, but Nate had accurately judged Mikko’s willingness to agree with him because Mr. Rantanen promptly stood up and headed over to the stove, where he offered his ill informed support to Nate. Tyson sat, contemplatively eating the last of the spaetzle and polishing off the squash while the three Alphas stood around the stove arguing about how to cook chops. He was enjoying the novel experience, now that he was confident no one was going to smack him, and looking forward to his hot chocolate. Nate turned and gave him a little wink and a smile, then turned back to the frying pan. “So Tys is supposed to eat first?” he said to Mr. Rantanen.

“If you want the Blessing, yes,” Mikko said

“And the Blessing means he stays? How do you get the Blessing?” Nate said and Tyson leaned in, also interested. He’d never heard anything like this. He’d read about Irish leprechauns and brownies and it seemed as if the Finns almost thought he was one.

“He eats first, and best,” Mikko said, very earnestly. “He has the seat closest to the stove and his plate of porridge is there in the morning. Everyone in the house respects him.”

“Hmm,” Nate said, considering. “What if I just do the fire for him in the morning instead?”

“You would have to do Christmas porridge then, at least,” Mikko said, entirely serious. “And bring him drinks. And be kind.”

“Oh, well, we’re all set then,” Nate said casually. “Looking forward to the crops,” he said to Tyson who gave him a small smile. Nate clearly didn’t believe, but Tyson knew what he was. He wasn’t a Finnish elf, but he _was_ something rare. 

“ _I’m_ looking forward to a chop,” EJ said loudly.

“Shut up,” Nate said to him, and then he turned from the stove with the first chop and a jar of applesauce. “Mikko’s right, though,” he said, pressing Tyson down gently into his chair when he stood to assist. “You eat first. You’re still too thin.” He served Tyson the large, leathery chop. “Right,” Nate said. “You want more?” Tyson shook his head. “You _sure_?” Nate pressed and Tyson smiled shyly at him. Nate ducked down and very quickly kissed his cheek.

“Less kissing, more frying,” EJ bellowed and that, strangely, lifted some of the tension Tyson still felt. Happily he applied himself to the pork, feeling strange about eating before the Alphas did but all three of the men were looking on approvingly, and that lighter atmosphere carried him all the way through dinner.

***

As they were bidding their guests farewell Nate headed out to the barn with Mr. Johnson, leaving Mr. Rantanen the last to leave. He stopped at the door, looking back at Tyson. “ _Sateenkaari_ ,” he said, almost whispering. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, thank you,” Tyson said automatically. He was thinking of his hot chocolate, and his promised walk. He liked holding hands with Nate and he liked the cold brisk air late in the year, and he liked the thought of hustling home hand in hand through the early, bold sunset to fix supper and then sleep in his comfortable bed with Nate

“I can see he loves you but he doesn’t understand,” Rantanen said. “I know you were married to a Swede but you should know; the _Sateenkaari_ goes where he likes for us. There aren’t many Finns here but any of us would welcome you, and your child.”

“I don’t touch,” Tyson said, more harshly than he meant to, startled by the suggestion that Nate loved him and unsettled at the thought of just upping and moving to a new house with yet more new people and their strange new ways and a new husband, even if Mr. Rantanen didn’t realise that was what he was suggesting. Because porridge and hospitality were all very well but eventually Tyson was going to need something more to eat than porridge and some new shoes and perhaps a doctor's visit and Finnish folk belief wasn’t going to provide that; husbands did. If Omegas in Finland moved house freely, Tyson was sure it was a damn sight closer to the strategic relocations of courtesans than swallows simply flitting to a new barn. And besides. He liked Nate.

“Not for me!” Mr. Rantanen said, blushing and looking horrified at the suggestion. “No! I mean my _äiti_ , she would surely welcome you.”

“Oh,” Tyson said, at a loss. “Thank you.” He supposed it was nice to know he had a bolt hole if Nate suddenly turned nasty. It did seem unlikely at this point, but still. Mr. Rantanen bowed and reached into his satchel.

“I brought you butter,” he said, putting it carefully on the windowsill so Tyson didn’t have to take it from his hand. “Butter for favour.”

Tyson wavered briefly but snatched at the butter; it was mid November and butter wasn’t so easy to come by. If people wanted to give him butter because they thought he was a brownie, ready to scare the cows if crossed, who was he to refuse? He poked open the bit of paper it was wrapped in; it looked very nice, rich and golden, and moved by the gesture and Mr. Rantanen’s kindness in trying to prevent what he had thought was Nate beating Tyson, he smiled at him. “Thank you,” he said and thought of the other half of the molasses cake **.** “Will you take some cake home for your mother?” Tyson asked, and he saw at once it was the right response. Mr. Rantanen lit up with a pleased smile and nodded happily. Tyson could see from his response that this at least was the same as back home. Food from an Omega’s hands was much desired, a little bit of the Blessing in every piece and a suggestion of Tyson’s favour in the gift. 

He could see Nate noticed Mr. Rantanen clutching the patterned cookie tin, but he said nothing about it until after their walk and hot chocolate, waiting until they were in bed and Tyson told him about the exchange. “Mikko’s going to go on thinking you’re an elf if you keep accepting butter,” Nate said mildly, and Tyson could tell he wasn’t scolding, really, more amused. In Community, accepting a gift of food from another Alpha’s hand would have meant major discipline, but not here, it seemed. Nate did not follow, and didn’t even seem to know, any of the complex Integrity rules around food. Tyson turned to look at him to check he was right and Nate wasn’t annoyed but Nate was busy arranging the pillows. Tyson had brought the goose down pillows into the marriage and Nate, who had never slept on a pillow before or even a real mattress, had taken to them something fierce. There were four pillows and Tyson slept on one, because he didn’t care, and Nate slept reclined on the other three like a king, cradled in their cushy softness. He made it his business every evening to plump and arrange them just right, though the inequality seemed to worry him. “You _sure_ you don’t want another pillow?” Nate asked like always, and Tyson just waved him off like always. Nate finished his arranging and smiled up at Tyson. It was clear the butter was of no account to him, though he had looked put out about the loss of the second half of the cake. 

“I’m not some kind of silly _elf_ ,” Tyson said, daring to criticise an Alpha, just a little. 

“No,” Nate said, arranging the covers and kissing Tyson. “You’re just a person.”

“I’m not a _person_ ,” Tyson said, unaccountably huffy about the accusation. “I’m the _Räajenboagen_.”

“And a person,” Nate said. Tyson was silent. It wasn’t his place to argue with his Alpha but he wasn’t, legally or religiously, a person and Nate should know it without needing it pointed out to him. “You’re a person,” Nate said again, blowing out the lantern and snuggling up next to him. “My favourite person, and I’ll do the fire for you because I like you, not because you’re bringing me luck.” 

***

Nate’s Pa came out the next week along with two of Nate’s brothers, bringing twenty pints of rose hips for jelly, clothes to exchange with Nate - two of Mr. MacKinnon’s old shirts, a pair of pants Mrs. MacKinnon got in trade that fit only Nate, and a thick woolen scarf for Tyson, knit by Sarah - and the news that Nate’s Ma was still steaming. In exchange they gave him two of Nate’s shirts, Nate’s shoulders having grown over the fall, three hens that were beyond laying age, and one hundred pounds of pork, half of what they had gotten from the slaughter of their pigs. Tyson had paused and looked at Nate the night before while they were pulling the barrels out from the storehouse, unsure about handing off such a large part of their winter reserves. Nate had already hauled several cartloads of hay, one of wheat and two of corn, into town for the MacKinnons over the last few months and Tyson recalled the previous lean winter with some alarm but didn’t dare to say anything.

Nate had looked at him and shrugged. “This’ll be enough,” he’d said, looking at the remaining contents of the storehouse. “We’ll be eating oats and turnips by the end of it, but it’ll be enough.” Evidently Nate could tell what Tyson thought of that from his face. “C’mon,” Nate had said, taking Tyson’s arm. “Come here and make sure I got it right, your figuring’s better than mine and this’ll be your job next year.” He’d walked Tyson through his calculations, touching each barrel, bag or crate in turn. One hundred pounds of pork, salted and smoked and made into sausage; one hundred pounds of various beans, sacks of nuts, a box of salt cod, which Nate loved and Tyson hated; the potato clamp, lined with earth and straw, containing several hundred pounds of potatoes and then down all of one side of the pit the carrots, beets, turnips, rutabagas and cabbage, the onions in bags and braids, ready to be brought inside when needed, cured pumpkins and squash in their careful piles and the parsnips, horseradish and sprouts still in the garden, waiting til they were wanted. Five hundred pounds of oats, everything they had harvested from the fields, all unsold as the oat price was bad that year and they could be used as human and animal food alike; only two hundred pounds of wheat, much of which must be saved for the following year as seed. Finally large crocks of eggs in waterglass, a barrel of sauerkraut and a large tub of headcheese; one pound blocks of butter, several large farmhouse cheeses, all they had managed to get from their cows that year, half waxed and half wrapped in cloth, and then into the house where the flour bin was filled with one hundred pounds, the same again of oats next to it, and the wall of pickled and canned produce Tyson had managed to put up over the summer along with the incidentals like saleratus, a large loaf of sugar, corn meal, crackers, dried fruit and a small sack of rice. 

“That’s none too much pork and it’s not enough flour,” Nate said finally, when they ended the tour in the house. “But we got a hundred pounds between the two of us and they only got two hundred from their pigs for the nine of them so you can see we had to share. Ma’ll use the pork to make the beans go down easierand they’ll be alright, their beans did well this year, and they’ve got plenty of flour.”

“Alright,” Tyson had said, and he did see. If a man needed, on average, one hundred pounds of meat and one hundred and fifty pounds of flour for a winter, they were going to have to make up the difference with beans and oats and anything Nate could shoot but it could be done, with careful planning. And it sounded like it was his job now to do that planning. If the purchasing was his job there would be less cod and more beef in future, but he knew they couldn’t afford that and he was grateful for what they had, grateful for having this explained to him, grateful to Nate for his gentle ways and recognition that the person responsible for feeding them needed to know what there was to feed them on. It made the coming winter less frightening, to know what the task was spread out before him and to have some control over it. It seemed like every week he understood better what his new life consisted of, how he was meant to conduct himself and how they were intertwined with the other farmers and the MacKinnon family.

Thinking of that conversation Tyson caressed the scarf, a beautiful cloudy blue, and added a tablecloth to the pile of goods for the MacKinnons, pure French linen and edged with expensive handmade lace. He wasn’t using it anyway, he reasoned, and it might as well go to someone who’d appreciate it. Sarah could put it in her hope chest or make a shirtwaist of it, perhaps. “That’s very kind,” Mr. MacKinnon said approvingly, and Tyson thrilled at the praise. “You’re a good boy,” Mr. MacKinnon said. “I can see why Nate’s so fond of you.” Tyson blushed and just looked at the ground silently, but he appreciated the praise.

Everytime Tyson met Mr. MacKinnon he liked him more. He was soft spoken and good to his children and he never got too close to Tyson or moved too fast. He seemed very nice, and _safe_ , and if Tyson had followed the traditional path laid out for Omegas and married a man a generation above him, an older man all passion spent like Mr. MacKinnon’s must be - if Nate was eighteen Mr. MacKinnon must have been a little over forty, old and past it - he’d have chosen one like Graham, if he’d had the choice. Mr. MacKinnon, he thought, would never have made him do _it,_ he was sure. Or at least not often, anyway, what with his advanced age; he was like Nate, but older, the generation Tyson had expected to marry. Tyson eyed Mr. MacKinnon and wondered what it would have been like being married to him. Mr. Rantanen had suggested Tyson could choose to jump to another man, a shocking proposal; Tyson didn't know _what_ they got up to in Finland after marriage but the thought wasn’t so impossible as that, he supposed. It wouldn’t have been unlikely for an Omega swirling in the marriage mart before engagement to set father against son and brother against brother, jostling to obtain the best result, trying to guarantee safety and security and personal gain, but to do so after marriage while the current husband was still alive was unthinkable. 

The time for that, Tyson thought, was comfortingly past and Fate had decided on Nate for him, the best possible outcome so far as Tyson could see, better than he could have ever hoped. Still, it was a thought, and as he ate his dinner he stared at Mr. MacKinnon, thinking about what it would be like to be married to him. What would it be to give himself over to Nate’s father rather than Nate, to let him into his body as he supposed any other man would have made him? He thought about it idly but it stirred no real emotion in him, not interest, not revulsion, just a vague sense of how extremely awkward the Sunday dinners would be with all three of them at the table, Tyson Nate’s step parent now. In this imagined world Nate was still there, of course, still looking intently at Tyson and still protective of him. How could he do without Nate, even in his imagination? He looked again at Mr. MacKinnon and wondered what he looked like without clothes. Tyson had seen Nate naked once and he’d seen him often without a shirt, and sometimes little glances before he looked away while Nate was in the bath; bare, Nate looked like a fine tool or a racing horse, all power, no niceties, pared down to the sinew and ready to run. He’d like to see Nate naked again; there were some parts he never got to examine and he wondered … but he didn’t care to imagine Graham in the same way and he shrugged off the thought.

Someday Nate would ask or insist that Tyson do _it_ , he knew, and the thought didn’t fill him with terror anymore. He still didn’t want to but he imagined with Nate it would be tolerable. He would kiss him before and after, Tyson knew, and say nice things to him, and pet him sweetly. It would hurt of course, but not be so forced as it was and he thought Nate would be careful not to crush him with his body weight and maybe he could be persuaded to go gently. That would be nice. Nate had made him help with processing the pigs which had been gross and horrible and sad, though quick for the pigs, at least; Tyson had turned away when they killed them and Mr. Johnson had made an exasperated noise and suggested Tyson should help with that part too but Nate had defended him and said he could get used to it little by little and Tyson appreciated it. He imagined Nate would do as much for Tyson in bed and get him used to it, little by little, and maybe as with the pigs afterward when they were cleaned up bring him a handful of hard candies and tell him he’d done well. The thought comforted him profoundly. If the worst came, and it usually did, he would survive it. He didn’t know that it would even impair his affection for Nate all _that_ much, such was his regard. He watched Nate inelegantly shovel the last of the cabbage into his mouth, hunched over his plate and thought he was glad to be married to Nate, not some old man no matter how nice. No one was nicer than Nate. 

“My God,” Mr. MacKinnon said judgmentally. “You got a tapeworm? Your boy not feeding you?”

Nate shot a sharp look at his father and stopped his eating. “Tys is feeding me _fine_ ,” he said defensively. “I never ate so well in my life. Tys is the best cook I ever knew.” He paused and looked panicked. “Don’t tell Ma I said that!” he begged, and Mr. MacKinnon just laughed,

“Ah, go on, boy, that’s alright,” Mr. MacKinnon said indulgently, looking fond. “Newlyweds,” he said benevolently. “You’re married now, you love him, of course you’re partial, why not?” Tyson’s stomach sank. Talk of love made him very uncomfortable; it seemed to him love in a marital sense was predicated on relations and he knew he wasn’t keeping up his part of the bargain. It must have shown on his face because Nate shot him a look.

“Pa,” Nate said, sounding miserable but also pleased. “Maybe don’t…”

“Right,” Mr. MacKinnon said hastily, “right, right I forgot. Well, beauty doesn’t last, cooking does.” This remark Tyson found comfortingly familiar and the rest of the visit passed off without any more of Tyson’s imaginings.

***

“Your Pa’s nice,” Tyson said that night, climbing into Nate’s lap where he sat on the bed, driving an elbow into Nate’s gut by mistake.

“Oof,” Nate said, but he looked eager enough to have Tyson there, despite the elbow. “Yeah?” Nate said, recovered, kissing him.

“Yes,” Tyson said, “like you, but older.”

“Well, Pas tend to be like that,” Nate said, kindly not pointing out what an idiotic remark that had been. “I saw you gave him that tablecloth.” 

“Mmmhmm,” Tyson said, holding his breath. The switch to wool clothing for the winter had brought an unforeseen problem; Nate stank. They only washed the slow drying wool every couple weeks and it caught and held odours; even in just his long johns Nate was whiffy from contact with the clothes.

“What?” Nate said, but he clearly had an inkling because he sniffed at his own armpit.

“Nothing,” Tyson said, all one exhalation, and then held his breath again. Speaking had exhausted his reserves, and he struggled, turned red, and then drew in another sucking breath, facing away from Nate. “Nothing!” he said again, gasping.

“My God, you’re fussy,” Nate said in disgruntled tones, but he was already getting up. “I had a bath not two days ago!” 

Tyson watched him as he took the kettle, still full of warm water from sitting on the banked stove and poured it into a basin, then began to wash his torso with a rag and a bit of coarse soap. He watched carefully as Nate scrubbed one strong arm, then the other, then twisted to reach his back, drawing the structure of his chest into sharp relief. Did other men’s chests look like that? Tyson wondered. It didn’t matter, really, because he was never going to find out; he was married to Nate and he’d stay married to Nate and he was suffused with what a pleasing thought that was. What had once seemed like an unendurable sentence now felt like a promise of something good to come, years and years of good things to eat and family visits and Nate’s muscles, all laid out before him. “Do your feet too,” Tyson ordered without thinking, and then added, “please, Alpha,” and Nate made a face at him but sat down in a chair to scrub at his feet. Finally he was done and climbed back in bed. 

Tyson flopped around with pleasure, new sheets that morning and warm, clean Nate and the blankets over him with the cold air outside; he turned towards Nate and cuddled into him. He smelled much better now, fresh and soapy. Tyson seized the opportunity to examine the way Nate’s shoulder flowed into his neck and ran his hand up Nate’s arm, over his shoulder and up along his neck; Nate sucked in a breath and shivered. Pleased with the reaction, Tyson ran one finger back down, trailing it across Nate’s chest and down his ribs, watching with interest as a trail of goose pimples followed. “Hnngh,” Nate said and sort of writhed beneath him.

“Thanks for washing, you smell nice now, Alpha,” Tyson said, pleased at the improvement. Feeling brave, he ran the palm of his hand across Nate’s chest and down to the flat plane of his stomach above the waist of his long johns. Nate must have been ticklish because he sucked in a breath and sort of jack knifed up a bit. Tyson jerked his hand back but Nate caught it and pressed it back down. 

“That’s alright,” Nate said rather hoarsely, and Tyson took him at his word and continued his explorations. Nate relaxed back onto the bed, but he was biting his lip and he pulled the bed covers up a little higher so they were almost at his navel.

“I like touching you better when you’re clean,” Tyson said, just thinking out loud as he drew careful circles on Nate’s stomach.

“Yes?” Nate said. His face was rather red and his back a little arched. Tyson hoped he wasn’t uncomfortable. 

“The sheets are new today,” he said, concerned there was a prickle or some such underneath Nate. Occasionally a bit of hay would manage to pierce the mattress cover and poke the unwary sleeper; he crammed his hand between Nate and the mattress and felt about for the culprit. Mostly what he got hold of was Nate’s rather firm bottom and legs; Nate must have been ticklish there too because he began to wriggle something fierce.

“The sheets are fine,” Nate said, catching at Tyson’s hand and removing it from underneath him. His voice was oddly rough. “I was just stretching. What were you saying about washing?”

“Every day, please,” Tyson murmured, busy inspecting the very little chest hair Nate had, his face crushed into Nate’s neck, lips whispering against his stubble.

“Every day!” Nate said, but then he sank back down and began to rumble as Tyson kissed the hinge of his jaw. Nate sighed, resigned. “Oh fine,” he said, stretching out against Tyson. “Every day,” and Tyson kissed him again as a reward. Half asleep, Tyson wondered what Nate tasted like and _licked_ along the shell of his ear.

“Oh God,” Nate said faintly, and abruptly stood back up out of bed. “I’ve got to - “ He didn’t finish his sentence but just stuck his feet in his boots and departed into the mid November evening in nothing but his long johns. Nate was like that, though - he often seemed to feel the need of a bit of night air, generally soon after they went to bed. Tyson shrugged and curled up to go to sleep.

***

Two days later, an enormous man, larger even than Nate or Mr. Johnson, was looming several feet inside the doorway. “Eep,” Tyson said, freezing with his spoon still in the jam pot. He didn’t like strangers, he didn’t like Alphas, and he liked strange, enormous Alphas the least of all. Tyson eyed him warily;was he an ass slapper? Should he hide? It was hard to know.

“Hey,” Nate said from behind the stranger, leaning on the doorframe. He was wearing a shirt Tyson had never seen on him before, a blue and white plaid inherited from his Pa, faded and worn with washing, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Nate frequently wore just a shirt with nothing over it but suspenders and many of the men in the rough Western town did the same; before Tyson came to Denver he had never seen a man without at least a waistcoat over his shirt. The sun was coming in from the side, casting a diffuse light over the door and highlighting the dust motesin the air. Nate had the shirt tucked intowell fitting wool trousers and calf high boots; he’d left off his chaps for the moment. His hair was ruffled and he was smiling and the new shirt showed off how broad his shoulders were and Tyson was glad to see him. He knew with Nate there nothing would go wrong. _He looks dashing_ , Tyson thought, not something he had ever thought about Nate before. He liked Nate. He admired Nate greatly, and he was grateful to him for all he’d done for him but he hadn’t devoted any time previously to thinking about whether Nate was handsome or not, or if his shirt brought out the blue of his eyes and Tyson was surprised it had occurred to him now.

“Hi Zads,” Nate said, still leaning on the doorframe, looking like he was master of the situation. “You come to shoe your horse?”

“There you are,” the man said. “I brought the blankets to trade, you still want them?” He held his hand out to shake and Nate took it briefly.

“I do, thanks,” Nate said pleasantly, slipping past him towards Tyson. “Tys, for goddsake put that on a bit of bread or something,” he said, coming over to where Tyson was frozen and taking the jam out of his hand. “I don’t know how you can eat it plain.”

“I like it plain,” Tyson said, jolted back into speech by Nate’s hand resting on the back of his neck. “Alpha,” he said belatedly to the stranger.

“ _Printessa!_ ” the Alpha boomed, “Hello! I never saw one of you before!” He looked at Tyson interestedly and started forward; Tyson cringed back against Nate and Nate put his arm around Tyson’s waist and gave them a half turn so Tyson was a little behind him.

“Hold up, Zads,” Nate said. “Tys isn’t used to strangers.” Tyson looked over at him gratefully and Nate gave him a little squeeze. “Tyson, this is Nikita Zadorov, he’s got the farm next to the Olsons. Zads, this is Tyson.” Mr. Zadorov no doubt said something, but Tyson didn’t hear it because he’d noticed Nate had introduced Alpha Zadorov to _him_ , signalling Tyson had the higher status and he was mulling that over. How odd. He wondered if Nate knew he was doing it. Nate didn’t know formal manners at all but he had a natural courtesy that informed all his actions and he usually got it broadly right. Mr. Zadorov stepped closer and Tyson refocused.

“ _Printessa_ ,” Mr. Zadorov said again and edged forward to inspect Tyson thoroughly, peering at him so closely he almost touched him. “Amazing,” he said. “I heard but I never saw before.” He stared at Tyson for another minute. “You’re very pretty,” he added meditatively. “Not as pretty as my wife, but pretty. I like your hair.” Tyson stood frozen with horror. He could feel Nate vibrating beside him but he couldn’t tell if it was anger or amusement. “Should we shake hands?” Mr. Zadorov asked doubtfully, holding one large hand out, almost brushing Tyson’s.Everything about this man was enormous, Tyson thought; his hands, his smile, his booming voice. “I think you must be Reform, yes?”

“No!” Tyson said, and feeling brave with Nate still pressed against him, leaned around Nate and gave Mr. Zadorov’s hand a whack with his jam spoon, then dodged back behind Nate. “I’m not Reform and Omegas don’t touch,” he said as emphatically as he could. He couldn’t quite muster a ‘fuck off’, but the whap with the spoon, he felt, was good work. Nate and Mr. Zadorov burst into laughter which wasn’t really the desired reaction but Mr. Zadorov did withdraw his hand.

“A Blessing, Doggy!” Zadorov said to Nate, waggling his hand about as if he were injured and Tyson watched as Nate winced.

“Will you _stop_ calling me that,” he said. “I told you a thousand times, _no_ , and put your hand away, Omegas don’t touch.”

“But Dogg,” Zadorov said, clearly enjoying Nate’s reaction and taking another step closer. Tyson could tell Nate liked him a lot because Nate didn’t punch Zadorov, he just grabbed his arm and towed him a few feet away.

“No,” Nate said firmly. “Don’t tease, Z, he doesn’t like it.” Mr. Zadorov looked over Nate’s shoulder at Tyson, and winked, then pulled back from Nate’s grip and sat at the table. Even seated he was close to Tyson’s height. 

“Nice to meet you,” he said to Tyson cheerfully. “What a funny place for you to be, out here. You speak much English? My wife speaks Russian only, but she would love to meet you.” Zadorov was angling for an invitation, Tyson knew, looking to get a little of Tyson’s luck for the wife he seemed fond of. Maybe her health was bad: maybe they wanted a baby but couldn’t have one, maybe their crops weren’t doing well or their animals were prone to illness. Tyson’s favour could change all that, or so Zadorov believeddespite his talk of modernity, along with all the other Old Country Europeans Tyson had met out here. They knew what he was, even if Nate didn’t, though Tyson doubted they understood what he had been raised to be. Tyson spoke English, Platt and German, read and wrote English and High German and some French, played the piano unwillingly to a high standard, could paint dainty pictures, embroider, write a beautiful hand and run a wealthy home like a military campaign. He’d been forced to operate exclusively in English, his third language, since the day Gabe died and he was a little offended by the question but he wanted to put on a good show for Nate. 

“Nice to meet you, Alpha,” he said softly, _in English_. “I’d be happy to meet your wife,” he said, dooming himself to an inevitable visit with a curious wife. “Tea?”

“I brought four good wool blankets to trade,” Zadrorov said, bulling right past the offer of tea, “and my wife washed them last week so you don’t have to.” He seemed eager for Tyson to know this, presumably to curry favour.

“Thanks, Alpha,” Tyson said. He appreciated not having to wash them, wrestling with sodden wool blankets was a job, especially alone. “You want tea?”

“You know Russian style?” Mr. Zadorov asked and Tyson nodded. Of course he knew Russian style. His _Kolonie_ like all of them was a muddle of German and Dutch and Russian influences intermingled over the years but there was always someone old enough and traditional enough to insist on their country’s specific ways and Tyson could serve tea gracefully in six different styles. Russian was easy; stew the living hell out of the tea and add jam, nothing to it. He didn’t have a samovar but he could make do. 

“Jam or sugar lump?” Tyson asked and Mr. Zadorov grunted approval. 

“Both,” he said, grinning. “Thanks. I’ll tell my wife I met you, she’s from home too, she knows what you are.”

“What is he?” Nate said irritably. He got very touchy whenever conversation veered towards anything he thought was Orthodox. “And you don’t have to keep saying ‘my wife’ every two seconds, we all know you got married last month.”

“He’s the _Printessa_ ,” Mr. Zadorov said cheerfully. He seemed very hard to offend. “And I don’t _have_ to say ‘my wife’, I just like it, and she’ll be glad to know I drank tea from the _Räajenboagen_ ’s hand.” He sat back, looking pleased. “A little bit of the Queen’s Blessing,” he added and nodded at Tyson.

“If you know so much why’d you try to shake his hand?” Nate said.

“Sorry,” Mr. Zadorov said, shrugging. “I know you’re Reform so I thought....” This didn't seem to placate Nate any, who scowled even more intensely at Zadorov. Tyson tried something he’d seen couples do back home and put one hand lightly onto Nate’s wrist where it rested on the table. Nate looked at him, surprised, but then smiled and took his hand; his irritation palpably diminished and Tyson took note.

“What’s the Queen’s Blessing?” Nate said, half to Mr. Zadorov and half to Tyson. Tyson looked away pointedly at the wall and Mr. Zadorov decided to fill the silence.

“Luck!” he said, cheerful as always. “Anything they touch brings luck, you know, and food is double luck! _You_ know,” he said, giving Nate a sort of wink and a nudge. “You got the _King’s_ Blessing.”

“What’s the King’s Blessing?” Nate asked and Tyson had to turn around entirely and stare at the kitchen bench to hide his blush. The King’s Blessing was, technically, fucking an Omega although polite company would characterize it as marriage to an Omega, but Tyson wasn’t sure how polite Mr. Zadorov’s company was. Luckily Zadorov just laughed, apparently assuming Nate was kidding, _thank God._

“Have a cookie?” Tyson said desperately, trying to change the subject. Flustered, he slapped the tin on the table and realised too late he’d given them the hermit cookies with the expensive nutmeg and raisins in them. He should have brought out the oatcakes. Well, Nate looked pleased, anyway and Mr. Zadorov shoved a hermit in his mouth so there was a moment of blessed silence. Tyson took a cookie too, to soothe his ruffled feelings. 

“My wife makes these,” Mr. Zadorov said through a mouthful of crumbs and Nate rolled his eyes. Mr. Zadorov caught him at it and grimaced back. “I’ll talk about my wife all I like. You talked about Tyson so much last week while we were butchering hogs Johnson told you to shut it,” he said to Nate, rustling through the cookie tin for the largest hermit. “You said Tyson was the best cook you ever knew, and Tyson was awful nice, and Tyson was terrible smart, and that no one’s wife could beat him, not for looks or pie crust, and Johnson told you to shut it and you told _him_ to shut it and that Marnie’s pie crust made you sick and Johnson punched you.” Zadorov shoved an entire cookie into his mouth to punctuate this withering observation and settled back in his chair, winking at Tyson again. “You said Tyson was _adorable._ ”

“Shut up,” Nate said, blushing, but he was laughing too. Tyson had wondered how he’d gotten that bruise. “Anyway, it’s true,” Nate said loyally, looking at Tyson fondly. “Tys _is_ adorable.”

“Well so is Sashenka,” Zadorov said peaceably. “And Marnie’s pie crust _is_ sickening,” he added, taking another cookie. “Johnson just don’t see it because he’s got to live with the woman.” Evidently on this both he and Nate could agree, and they gossipped happily as they made their way through the cookies. After he fetched the tea Tyson sat at the table with them, ready for his share of the cookies. He’d grown so accustomed to joining Alphas, or at least Nate, at table unbidden that he thought nothing of it but Zadorov looked at him oddly when he sat and then over at Nate. “I didn’t think you were allowed,” he said to Tyson. “Now I think of it, if you’re not Reform, why’d you even let me in the house?” The remark was directed to Nate, not Tyson.

“Tys can do what he likes,” Nate grumbled. “We’re not Orthodox, and we’re not following stupid rules,” and there the matter was left as they repaired to the barn. Tyson stayed at the table to eat the last of the cookies and meditate on _adorable_. He’d been called beautiful, valuable, sinful, stupid, an embarrasment, an investment and walking capital, but certainly not adorable and something in him shuddered away from it as excessive, though the knowledge that Nate had been talking about him proudly pleased him. It was a very Observant form of indirect compliment and he felt kindly inclined towards Alpha Zadorov who brought this fact to light _and_ backed down after being whacked, and he decided he’d give him a tin of cookies to take home. Tyson knew he’d be pleased to have something from the _Räajenboagen_ to give his wife. He was only getting oatcakes, though - they weren’t made of money and raisins were expensive. He was going to have to retrieve all those tins at some point too, they didn’t grow on trees.

Tyson headed out to bring the cookie tin to Mr. Zadorov and found them in the barn, Nate almost done the last shoe. He was bent over with the horse’s hoof between his knees, and he turned his head when he heard Tyson push open the door. Nate looked up through his flopped forward hair and smiled; the horse looked over too, inquisitively. It was absolutely enormous, certainly the biggest horse Tyson had ever seen, but he supposed it would have to be to cart Mr. Zadorov around. Nate was holding its massive hind leg still like it was nothing, arms flexed and large hands confident. Tyson watched him silently as he finished. He’d never actually seen Nate at his trade before and it was illuminating. Here he looked more adult than Tyson was accustomed to; Nate often looked competent, but now he was a man, a full grown man working at a trade he’d mastered and using his body as a tool, effortlessly controlling the horse and grunting at Mr. Zadorov to hand him various mysterious implements. “Nipper,” he said and Zadorov handed him what must be the nipper; “Rasp,” he said and Zadorov obediently handed that over too. Nate finished with the rasp and stood up; he was sweating and he ran one hand across his forehead to push his hair back. He was wearing his moosehide chaps and his pants but it looked like he’d had to fire the forge up to shape a shoe because he’d taken his shirt off and lost his hat somewhere. He was just in his undershirt and he’d sweated right through it, the whole thing plastered to his chest. “Tys,” he said, pleased, and set his tools down. 

“Oh, good,” Mr. Zadorov said and pulled the blankets out of the saddle bags. He handed them over to Tyson in one large heap and Tyson struggled to manage. It wasn’t the weight but the cumbersome shape and that the top blanket was threatening to slide off onto the mucky barn floor. Zadorov saw Tyson struggling and moved to take the blankets back but Nate shoved himself between them and grabbed the blankets.

“He can come to _me_ if he needs help,” Nate said severely. “Zads, he told you once already, don’t touch him.”

“I wasn’t touching him!” Alpha Zadorov protested, but he seemed more amused than offended; Nate was officiously organizing Tyson, pushing him gently to stand away from the horse and taking the tin to set it on a railing, then handing him the blankets one by one as he folded them. Once he had Tyson and the blankets organized how he liked he carefully set the cookie tin back atop the pile and then picked a few bits of straw out of Tyson’s hair and brushed him down all over. This sort of affectionate bossiness felt much more familiar to Tyson than suggestions of love only two months into a marriage or the idea that he was adorable, and he liked it. He smiled at Nate as he tidied him and then watched happily as Nate bent to put his tools away. Mr. Zadorov mounted up and prepared to leave and Tyson remembered the cookies.

“The cookies are for Alpha Zadorov,” Tyson said, muffled from behind the stack of blankets.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Nate said, “why are we giving him cookies?” but Tyson could tell he didn’t really mean anything by it. The tools had all been tucked away so Nate simply took the entire pile of blankets from Tyson and then tossed the cookies to Mr. Zadorov, seated atop his horse. Zadorov caught them easily and smiled, then rode his enormous horse right out of the barn. 

“More Blessings!” he called as he departed. “Adorable! Thank you!”

***

“Good job with the spoon,” Nate said that night as they were falling asleep. “Though I shouldn’t have said, about the bread - you can eat it however you like.”

“What’s that?” Tyson asked. He wasn’t sure what Nate was talking about - there was no spoon nearby. His jelly and syrup spoon was tucked away in his pants pocket like always, and anyway, he didn’t think Nate knew about that.

“Whacking Zads,” Nate said, half asleep. “You gave him a whack when he kept coming at you.”

“Um,” Tyson said, still not quite sure there was anything to be proud of there; he had indeed whacked an Alpha but did that really merit praise? Evidently so, as Nate rolled over to kiss him approvingly. Pleased, Tyson wriggled forward. Usually he was careful to keep their bottom halves a little separate but in the fullness of his feeling, pleased with Nate’s praise and pleased with his own bravery, he didn’t concern himself; he just flung himself forward and plastered himself against Nate.

“Oh boy,” Nate said, his body suddenly rigid against Tyson. “Whoo.”

“You alright?” Tyson asked, slinging one leg over Nate’s hip so he could sort of half prop himself over Nate and peer into his face. He looked alright; his pupils were perhaps somewhat dilated and his face a bit red, but he didn’t seem to be in any pain. Even as Tyson watched, though, his face grew redder and when Tyson looked closely, he seemed a little sweaty. Tyson wondered if he was sickening for an ague. “Alpha?” he said, patting at Nate’s face. His forehead didn’t show any signs of fever but sometimes that was the last thing to appear. Tyson reached between them, trying to feel Nate’s pulse at his wrist but Nate’s hands were oddly placed over his crotch and in burrowing down between them to get at Nate’s wrist Tyson inadvertently trailed his fingers overquite a lot of Nate, although it took him a minute to figure out what he was grabbing at as he wasn’t accustomed to navigating that part of Nate’s body. Nate held rigidly still beneath him and stared up at him fixedly with an odd expression, sort of ecstatic and horrified at once. Tyson squinted at him, trying to figure out what was going on, then realised and snatched his hands away, and in the scramble to sort himself out ended up collapsed on top of Nate. Tyson wriggled a little, trying to get back over onto his side of the bed and Nate made a sort of wheezing noise.

“I’m really not sure how much more of this I can take,” Nate said, speaking to the ceiling, hands on Tyson’s hips trying to hold him still. Tyson didn’t take his meaning and wriggled a little more, trying to heave himself off Nate.

“Right!” Nate said, set Tyson aside and bolted up out of bed. Well, there couldn’t be too much wrong with him if he could move at that pace, Tyson thought, watching him depart. Had he alwayswalked with such a wide legged straddle? Evidently the night air was just what he needed though because Nate returned five minutes later still flushed but seeming much more relaxed and they went peacefully to sleep.

***

Hey,” Nate said the following Saturday, hanging from the edge of the hayloft, grinning. He’d lost his shirt while he was loading the cured hay into the loft but still had his gloves, pants and boots on. Tyson looked admiringly up at him. He liked Nate’s muscles and they were married; surely it was alright to look? It must have been, as Nate smiled back at him and then did a series of showy pull ups. Tyson drifted a little closer. Nate’s pants were hanging so low Tyson could see a long stretch of hair below his navel, leading down, down and then disappearing beneath his waistband; he stared, still fascinated by body hair in general, and Nate’s in particular, on display for the whole world to see. Nate noticed where his eye had gone and grinned at him harder, unashamed. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, still dangling from the ledge as if it were nothing. Nate, Tyson was learning, made very few demands. He wanted Tyson to talk to him, wanted Tyson to engage with his laughing and ragging and wrestling, wanted Tyson to be sensible, not something Tyson had ever given much thought to before, liked when Tyson read out loud, liked to know what was for dinner so he could have the pleasure of looking forward to it, liked to sleep cuddled up against Tyson at night and to sit beside him in the day. He liked when Tyson kissed him first and he wanted to please Tyson; Tyson had noticed a real uptick in the amount of washing before bed since he mentioned it. 

“Molasses ham steak, hubbard squash, applesauce, green beans,” Tyson recited. It was a pleasure, mostly, to cook for Nate who was extremely uncritical so long as he recognized the dish. “Leftover cornbread, boiled pudding with sauce, tea.” Tyson had discovered Nate would happily eat things so long as they were named in a familiar way. Boiled pudding was not a boiled pudding at all, it was a Bavarian _Dampfnudel_ with custard and the off license addition of raisins because that was what Tyson felt like eating; but Nate didn't know that. He thought Tyson just did it a little different from his Ma and Tyson had no intention of telling him otherwise.

“Sounds good,” Nate said happily. “Thanks.” He let go of the ledge and dropped to the ground. “I just got this last load - why don’t you go sit down for a bit and have some tea?” Nate had taken his mother’s directions very seriously and encouraged Tyson to sit and eat and rest every day.

“Can I sit here?” Tyson asked, figuring what the hell. “With you?” He knew Nate meant for him to go sit in the house but he guessed he probably wouldn’t get mad at the change. Strangely, Nate seemed _pleased_ at the suggestion and smiled again. 

“Of course you can, baby,” he said, dragging one of the hay bales to rest against the one stall the barn could boast. “Here, sit,” he said, waving happily at the seat.

***

“These are nice,” Nate said, crunching his way through the walnut stick cookies. He’d run back to the house to fetch the tea, telling Tyson to stay seated, and returned with a tin of cookies and a pot of over stewed tea, as well as one of their small stash of condensed milk. Nate smelled like fresh hay and sweaty man and a little like horse and the oil he used on his gloves. One of his front teeth was stained and the three beside it rotated slightly inwards; his hair was very blond from the sun. Tyson thought maybe he’d bring the tea out to the barn tomorrow; it _was_ nice, with company like this, sitting beside Nate, and Nate had seemed pleased to see him. They didn’t often have mid morning tea together - Nate was usually working on another farm or in the fields of theirs, far enough away he took his dinner with him. “Hold on,” Nate said and stood to pick up the one bale left besides the one they were sitting on. He dragged it forward so they could rest their feet on it and Tyson watched as the muscles of his arms rolled and flexed. Tyson tried to imagine Nate holding the baby in those arms but the thought was too distant and unreal and he discarded it. Tyson hadn’t told Nate, but sometimes recently he could feel the baby inside him moving, little flutters like a tiny animal, something _living_ , _inside_ him, and he thought about it as Nate sat back down and gulped his own tea. Tyson thought about it as he sipped the milky tea and ate walnut sticks, wondering if a portion of the tea was going to the baby, a little of each walnut stick, all of it directed there by Nate’s efforts? Tyson ate another two sticks just to be sure.

“EJ’s going to come by this afternoon,” Nate said. “Can we give him supper?” Tyson nodded, but he worried. Back home a new married Omega wouldn’t be giving anyone anything so casual as a family supper. To be offered food made by the hands of an Omega, in their own home, was a production of several weeks, the invitation tendered, the house prepared, the social and economic favours exchanged, and finally the meal laid out on the gleaming table, ostensibly simple as Observant life demanded but actually a display of wealth and power. The dishes would be just a little finer than others owned, the ingredients a little more refined and Tyson, the most valuable belonging of all, would be seated at the foot of the table, silent and reserved.He certainly wouldn’t be rustling up a spur of the moment supper for a friend of his husband. A working dinner, which he had already done several times for Nate, was different and much less intimidating as both here and in Community it was simply a practical feeding of workers but supper was novel and worrisome. There was stew already simmering but stew didn’t seem sufficient; perhaps he could do a roast, he had a nice bit of pork. Yes, he thought, Nate loved roast pork, and he had those little onions too small to keep that he needed to use up - and there were carrots too, not yet put by for the winter. “Marnie’s coming with EJ,” Nate said casually, disrupting Tyson’s worries. “Can you be nice to her? She’s not used to fancy things like you are.” _Shy_ , Tyson thought and his heart went out to her, a young girl just married and no doubt unsure of herself, so like Tyson. 

“Of course I can, Alpha,” Tyson said. “Of course.” Of course he could. He would be _very_ nice to her; he knew what it was to be shy, god knows. He thought he would make apple pie especially to go with the roast pork and onions - apple pie was a quiet, soothing sort of dessert, and homely; no one could be anything but bolstered seeing that on the table, and he wanted her to feel welcomed and safe, because Marnie was shy. 

***

This proved to be untrue. Marnie was not shy, not at all although it took Tyson some time to figure that out. Marnie was a tall, broad woman, physically a good match for Alpha Johnson, and she gave Tyson a careful smile at the door. “Hello,” she said softly and Tyson briefly thought she _was_ shy and perhaps retiring, “Pleased to meet you.” Before he could say anything back, she turned to her husband. “Were you going to show Nate that horse?” she barked, somewhat less gently.

“Right!” Alpha Johnson said. “Yes!” He turned to Nate. “There’s a horse,” he said and Nate looked at him strangely. Tyson felt sure he must know there was a horse - how else could they have gotten here? 

“You boys go along,” Marnie said. “We’ll be fine.” Nate looked a little hesitant but Alpha Johnson gripped him by the arm and propelled him towards the barn.

“Bye, I guess,” Nate said looking puzzled as he was dragged away and Marnie turned back to Tyson.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now. I got a couple questions, if you don’t mind.” 

Yes?” Tyson said, thinking this seemed rather unshy.

“You talk?” she asked and Tyson was affronted. 

“Of course I talk,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Cause Erik wasn’t too sure.” 

“I talk,” Tyson said, twisting his apron in both hands. He didn’t feel too certain about talking to _her_ , though; her voice was low and gentle as if she were talking to nervous horse but she had a certain steely look in her eyes that seemed worryingly familiar. Mrs. MacKinnon leapt to mind.

“So what’s allowed?” she asked and reached a hand out towards him. “Can I touch you? Can you touch me? Can you eat something I’ve touched? Something Erik touched?” Marnie was soft spoken, it was true, but she certainly had a lot of questions, Tyson thought. 

“Yes, yes, yes, no,” Tyson said, overwhelmed, and then clamped his lips shut. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. 

Marnie looked at him consideringly. “I can see why Erik thought you don’t talk,” she said. “You talk more to Nate?”

“Yes?” Tyson whispered, and she sighed.

“How you set for the winter?” she asked, and that he was more able to answer. He showed her the tubs of wheat and oats and the wall of preserves then they discussed the pork situation at some length and Marnie offered several good ideas to make beans more palatable. She admired most genuinely his matching set of kitchen ware, part of his trousseau, and his Spode china, the same, although Tyson didn’t care much about that. If he was reduced to giving family suppers to Reform farmers, he reckoned he was also released from having to care about who had the better table setting, and he found more pleasure in showing her the cunning pastry cutter Nate had made him. Finally they moved on to the sweets Nate had snuck into the last load from the General Store, and by the time they had each enjoyed several dried figs and were chewing on some crystallized ginger they were better friends and Tyson felt less nervous.

“How you getting on with Nate?” Marnie said, and he just looked at her. How was he to answer that, such an enormous question? Marnie sighed again. “Come here,” she said, taking him by the hand. “Will you show me how to make pastry? Erik says yours is very good.”

“Oh, well,” Tyson said, flattered. He supposed he could show her his third best crust; he certainly wasn’t going to give away all his secrets, but third best would be alright. 

Something about the familiar act of making pastry eased his nerves, and he wondered if Marnie had planned it that way. She still had a great many questions but they were peppered among the lesson, and he felt less constrained. “How much flour?” she said, and he showed her. “And then butter?” she said, and he spent some little time explaining why that was wrong, and you always had to use lard. She nodded along agreeably. “Is Nate still partial to apple pie?“ she asked, and that was easy enough to answer. 

“Yes,” he said, and showed her how to cut the lard in properly, and then told her how Nate had eaten two pies all by himself last week. She laughed and tried to mix her portion but made a hash of it.

“You done your last trip to the General?” she asked while he was showing her the right way again, and that was easy to answer too. The trip to the General flowed naturally into the kittens at the store and he told her all about them. She laughed a little at the idea that he’d never seen a kitten before, but not meanly, and tried once more to cut the lard but the pieces were still too large.

“Like this,” Tyson said, showing her again. 

“Right,” she said, picking up the pastry cutter. “How you getting on with Nate?” she asked casually. “He evermake you do anything you don’t like?” 

“No?” Tyson said, confused. Nate was the single most indulgent Alpha he had ever met. “Why?’

“Because he’s eighteen,” she said, which seemed no kind of answer at all to him. “He’s a good boy but he’s got a temper,” she said. “And he thinks he knows what’s best, just like his Ma. Does this need more salt?”

“No, it’s fine,” Tyson said, looking at the dough. “Now we add the cold water.”

“Sometimes bad tempered men, they yell, or throw things,” she said. “Nate chucked a scythe at the barn last harvest time just because it was dull and damn near took his own toe off. He ever scare you?”

“No,” Tyson said. “Why?” He was beginning to worry about her home life with Alpha Johnson. 

“No reason,” she said, pouring far too much water into the dough.

“Nate says it’s wrong to hit anything smaller than you,” Tyson volunteered. “Nate says his Pa doesn’t hit his Ma and he doesn’t see any reason to do different.”

“That’s right,” Marnie said in a pleased tone. “How much water?” He showed her but she didn’t seem to know how to mix it in properly, so he took her dough away to demonstrate.

“Do you like it here?” she asked, a big question again and Tyson paused to think. 

“I do,” he said, surprised. He hadn’t stopped to think about it since he had been so upset to learn he had to marry but he did, he really did; he had liked living with Nate as his Little Brother but Nate as his husband, kissing and hugging and fussing over him was even better. “I like Nate,” he said shyly. 

“Nate likes _you_ ,” she said. “But I heard you were pretty shook up last week.”

“I was feeling fraught,” Tyson said with dignity. He hadn’t imagined Mr. Johnson to be such a gossip.

“Well, Erik said you were in a state,” she persisted. “You often get like that?” Tyson really didn’t see what business it was of hers, but he also got the distinct impression she wasn’t going to stop until he answered. He gave back her dough.

“Sometimes,” he muttered.

“Yeah?” she said. “You finding it hard being married?” and irritated Tyson clattered the pastry cutter against the bowl.

“ _No_ ,” he said shortly. 

“So Nate isn’t disciplining you?” she said.

“No,” Tyson said.

“Well what _is_ he doing that’s got you so upset?” she asked. “He’s not hitting you, surely? Nate wouldn’t.” She drummed her fingers consideringly on the table top. “Probably,” she added. Later that night Tyson would realise Marnie was concerned about him, but at the time he felt Nate was being attacked and he rushed to defend him.

“Nate’s very nice,” he said huffily. “Maybe I’m a little fraught because of the baby.” He didn’t bother to mention the previous twenty two years of his life being regularly fetched one around the head, which he imagined also had something to do with it. “Sometimes he brushes my hair,” Tyson said, thinking of Nate calming him down. 

“Sorry, he what?” she said, dropping the dough to stare at him.

“Brushes my hair?” he said. “If I feel fraught?”

“Nathan, _”_ she said. _“Nathan_ _MacKinnon_ brushes your hair because you feel fraught.”She gave the dough a mighty thump, which was very much the wrong way to work it although Tyson supposed it didn’t really matter after what she’d already done to it. “Did you know he and Erik broke trail last winter to the Plummers,” she said, “and then brought the living ones back on a sledge? It took two days and they got frostbit all over, especially their fingers and toes, but the littlest Plummer children lived.”

“Oh, but that was very brave,” Tyson said, impressed. Nate had never mentioned it.

“And then he and Erik spent the next month picking the bits of dead skin off their feet and daring his brothers to eat it,” she added, which was an awful lot less heroic, but something about it struck him as just so _Nate_ , who _was_ prone to being disgusting, though also tender and kind and apparently on occasion heroic, that he laughed. 

“And you’re saying _that_ Nate brushes your hair?” she said again, and Tyson put down his own dough. It was important she understood. 

“Nate’s so nice,” he said, eager. “He holds hands and tells me I’m pretty. He’s very sweet.”

“Well,” she said, thumping the dough again. “I wouldn’t have guessed it. God knows he’s not a romantic man. He told Erik to get me a shoat for my birthday last week and then he and Erik got into a wrestling match in the house and busted three of my chairs.”

“He won’t wrestle with me any more,” Tyson said primly. “He says it’ll end badly.” She laughed and looked over at Tyson with more interest than she’d shown so far. 

“ _Do_ you wrestle?” she said. “With Nate? I thought you were too fancy for that.”

“Well we used to,” Tyson said, surprised at her interest. “But he won’t anymore since he almost put me through the table. He had palpitations after and had to sit down, and then he was grouchy all night.”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. She thumped the dough, which was just a pitiful heap by now. “Nate can be a grouch,” she agreed. “Does it worry you?”

“Nate never worriedme once!” Tyson said, thumping his dough in turn. There was a great crater where his fist had hit and they were going to have to start all over. “Nate’s lovely! He brings me tea and he says I’m doing good and he brushes my hair when I feel fraught! So there!” He looked at the dough disconsolately. That was five cups of perfectly good flour and a fair bit of lard; he wasn’t going to give it to the pigs, though it was really fit for nothing else. He guessed they’d be eating rather tough meat pies for the next couple days.

“Alright,” she said, half laughing, “I’m convinced,” and then poked at the wreckage of their dough. “I think you better show me again,” she said but as he was clearing away their first pitiful attempt, she pulled a little cap she’d made for the baby from her bag and showed him where she’d stitched a tiny ‘MacK’ into the edge of the ribbon strings. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’re lucky to have a baby so soon,“ which was _not at all_ the case but Tyson didn't correct her. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“A girl,” Tyson said, bemused. “A girl, of course.”

“Oh,” she said, looking surprised. “Well. I’m sure either would be nice. Mac’s alright and you’re beautiful so I’m sure you’ll make a charming baby.”

Tyson was very murky on the mechanics of who babies resembled; could it possibly look like Nate, as he was his husband now? He wasn’t at all sure but he had hopes, and his heart warmed a little towards Marnie. Nate didn’t have the Landeskog looks that had so appealed to Tyson before, but there was something about Nate he liked better, something easy and safe about him that made him good to look at and he’d be glad to have a baby that took after Nate. The gift warmed him even further. It was an Omega’s role, it had been drummed into him, to be a reserved and cold host; any gift was an attempt to curry favour and any contact suspect. The people here didn't understand Bodily Integrity at all and although Tyson had abandoned all but the basic tenets when Nate moved in, he still didn't like to be touched by any unObservant and of course _could not_ be touched by any Alphas, and the bonnet was tainted by its provenance, incidental contact with Alpha Johnson a given, and should have been rejected. But Tyson had nothing this woman could want; andthe little bonnet, made of what looked to be homespun wool repurposed from some other garment, had been painstakingly knitted on delicate, time consuming needles and had a tiny ribbon rosette where the ties were sewn to the cap. The Observant didn’t wear ribbons; ribbons were prideful and showy and verboten, but Tyson knew they were expensive and he knew it wasn’t nothing to this nosy, over familiar woman’s housekeeping budget, finding the cost of the ribbon and the time to make the finely knitted cap for no reason but kindness and he thought he would teach her to make the best pie crust any man had ever eaten. 

“Assuming it looks more like you, that is,” Marnie said, interrupting his ruminations. “Nate can make a terrible odd face sometimes. Does he make those faces when he does it?”

“What?!” Tyson yelped. Surely he had misunderstood. This woman was not shy _at all._

“You know,” she said, apparently unconscious of Tyson’s horror. “He makes those strange faces all the time, whenever he’s concentrating. Does he do that when you’re - you know.”

“No!” Tyson said, appalled. “No!” Then he thought about the night before when Nate, as was his habit, had sat on the bed watching Tyson get ready for the night. Tyson had long perfected the art of changing into his gown without exposing any skin, but when he had wriggled out of his shirt beneath the gown, he had happened to glance over at Nate. Nate had briefly done exactly what Marnie described, making a sort of bug-eyed face of interest, eyes popping and lips twisting as he watched. “A little,” Tyson said, remembering it was vital he not let Marnie know they were not having relations. Marnie did a sort of faint imitation of Nate, and Tyson laughed. Encouraged, she bugged her eyes out even further and he laughed harder. Tyson was fascinated. It had never occurred to him that women discussed such topics but now he thought about it - “Does - does Mr. Johnson?” he asked, and Marnie made a deeply unflattering squinch eyed face, and he laughed again.

“That’s more like it,” she said encouragingly. “Show some spirit. Now let’s have another fig and then d’you think you could show me how to do my hair like yours?”

***

“Alright,” Nate said, tromping back into the room followed by Mr. Johnson. “That horse is fine, EJ, I don’t know what you’re talking about - oh. Hey. Look at that.” His huff was cut short by catching sight of Tyson finishing off the last braid in Marnie’s golden crown. “That looks nice,” he said approvingly to Tyson. “Almost as nice as yours.” Tyson smiled and Nate came over to pull him away from Marnie. “I don’t know why EJ made me look at that horse for an hour,” he said, “but I’m starving. Food ready?”

“It is, Alpha,” Tyson said and moved to fetch it but Nate caught his arm and pushed him gently in the other direction. 

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll get it.” And he did, despite Tyson’s protests. Evidently Nate had decided serving company was too much for Tyson, and possibly the source of his vapours the other day; it wasn’t, but Nate wouldn’t hear any different and Marnie, at least, seemed to find it amusing. 

“You’re not so bad, MacKinnon,” she said approvingly as Nate passed her with the roast, but that was the extent of the teasing and dinner passed off pleasantly. It was different from what Tyson was accustomed to in the way of company suppers but he liked it. He still didn’t have much to say in mixed company, but he enjoyed sitting at the table listening to the three others chuff each other and talk freely - he thought Jamie would have liked a supper like this, all of them young people together and no concerns about social maneuvering or Integrity beyond the basics. 

Nate’s Alpha obligingness only went so far though - at the end of the meal he sat back happily and watched Tyson and Marnie clear the table, but once that was done, he did tell Tyson to sit. Nate fetched the water to heat for the dishes and made tea and Marnie looked very approving though Tyson didn't really understand _why_. It would probably have been better if Nate didn’t show how soft he was to others, but there was no dissuading Nate and anyway - no one seemed to think he was all that soft. He and Mr. Johnson were talking about their plan to break stumps next week if the weather held, and Mr. Johnson said he wouldn’t do it with no one else, as Nate was the strongest bar himself. Mr. Johnson was not a man prone to flattery so Tyson assumed it to be true. 

“Marnie, you want a cup?” Nate bellowed across the room, and that was unfamiliar as well, and hard for Tyson to get used to, men calling women not their wives by their first names. 

“Aah, you got a good one there,” Marnie said to Tyson. “ _Erik_ don’t bring me no tea,” but even Tyson could see she was teasing. The terrifying Mr. Johnson just smiled at her toothlessly and waggled his finger at her to behave. She waggled right back and he laughed. 

***

“Can I ask you something?” Marnie said and Tyson turned towards her.They were doing the dishes while Nate showed Mr. Johnson the broken axle on the wagon. “You been married a while,” Marnie said, and Tyson nodded. Cumulatively, just over a year but that still put him well ahead of Marnie, who had married Mr. Johnson three weeks ago. She looked genuinely shy about her question; “You done it with two husbands - do you like it?” she whispered. Tyson was at a complete loss. He couldn’t tell the truth - he’d never done it with Nate, and he’d hated it with Gabe - without bringing up memories better left alone or exposing the one thing Nate had asked him to hide. He prepared himself to lie. 

“Ahh,” he said, stalling for time and then just giving up. “No. I mean, yes, very nice.” He wasn’t going to tell her he hated it and he certainly wasn’t going to tell her they hadn’t done it. Nate had made one request on this subject and that was _for the love of God don’t tell anyone we aren’t doing it, Tyson, please_ , and Tyson was deeply, deeply appreciative of Nate’s forebearance. He could certainly fib a little in return. “I like Nate,” he said, which was certainly true.

“Sorry,” Marnie said. “I know that’s rude but I got no one else to ask. Both of them? You didn’t like it with either of them?”

“Well,” Tyson said, uncertain what to say. “Am I supposed to?” Marnie looked at him curiously.

“Did you like it with your first husband?” she asked.

“No,” Tyson said honestly. “I ...don’t hate it with Nate?” he offered, not wanting to make Nate look bad or lump him together with Gabe. “It’s fine?”

“Yeah,” Marnie said, not looking surprised. “I don’t hate it either and Erik tries to be nice but I just - “ she paused. “He’s sort of clumsy and he goes so _quick_. It’s kind of boring?” Tyson thought she was getting off lightly if it was just boring, but he didn’t want to say so. The thought of Mr. Johnson fumbling about, trying and failing to make his wife enjoy herself was too much for him and he shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that. “I don’t think he knows what he’s doing,” Marnie said, sounding unsure. “ _I_ sure don’t.” Every time Nate touched Tyson he seemed to know exactly what he was doing, so Tyson didn’t think they had _that_ problem.

“I like the kissing,” Tyson said, because he did and he wanted to give Nate his due, and Marnie nodded.

“Right?” she said. “Me too! But the rest - “ she looked at him knowingly and sighed. “You done it much?” she asked and here Tyson knew he had to give Nate a good showing.

“Oh yes,” he said airily. “All the time.” Marnie looked impressed but didn’t seem to find that answer surprising either. 

“Like every day?” she asked. “I think Erik would do it everyday if I was willing.”

Thinking of the frequency of their kissing, Tyson nodded. “Oh, constantly,” he said.

“ _Constantly_?” she said, “With the baby and all? How often a week?” and Tyson panicked. The Observant and Orthodox were meant to only do it when the men couldn’t not, when the base desire was overwhelming, and Gabe had had him do it several times a week so Tyson reckoned if he and Nate had _liked_ it, they’d do it even more, and then he factored in the frequency of their kissing, many times a day, and he answered.

“Oh, dozens,” he said without thinking and then she _did_ look surprised. Nate and Mr. Johnson clattered back into the cabin and Marnie looked at Nate consideringly. 

“Dozens?” she whispered and Tyson had no recourse but to commit to the lie.

“Dozens,” he said firmly. “All the time. Night and day.” Marnie looked impressed and a little horrified. She’d never know Nate was a virgin now, Tyson thought. 

“That’s a bit mean of him, to make you to do it all the time like that,” Marnie said. “He seems so fond of you, too.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Tyson said. He didn’t think Nate was so fond of him as all that, Nate was just a kind man and good to everyone.

“ _Omega MacKinnon_ ,” Marnie said, with a great deal of weight. “You listen to me. I known Nate since he came here when he was fourteen and Nate’s a good boy but he doesn’t go round fetching the dish water for everyone, I know.” She gestured at the dish bucket full of water Nate had hauled after supper so Tyson didn’t have to, and at the larger bucket beside it, also full of water for the next day. “He’s more than fond of you.”

“Oh, well,” Tyson said. 

“He talks about you, you know,” she said. 

“Oh, well,” Tyson said again, clutching the dish cloth. The talk was making him antsy but he was also dying to know. “What did he say?” he whispered, glancing at Nate and Mr. Johnson. They were engaged in drinking beer and arguing about some piece of the axle mechanism and seemed oblivious.

Marnie looked embarrassed but answered anyway. “He said you had a beautiful nature,” she replied. Tyson snorted and Marnie laughed too. Tyson did not have a beautiful nature; no one had ever thought Tyson had a beautiful nature. Tyson had a contrary, contentious nature and a propensity to gobble up all the sweets; Nate had very clearly confused his outward appearance with his inward qualities. “And he told Erik you were sweet to him, sweet as anything though you didn’t have to be, seeing as how you’re so beautiful and that he does the fire for you every day. That true?” she asked, and Tyson blushed. 

“He does the fire,” Tyson said, “but that’s because - “ and there he paused, not really sure why Nate _did_ do the fire. “Because Nate’s very fine,” he finished and Marnie snorted.

“Nate’s about as fine as a cow pat,” she said. “He’s a good enough boy and like to be a good man but I once saw him throat punch Erik because he beat him in a snowshoe race. Nate’s not fine and he’s not a man to talk of beautiful natures.” She looked consideringly at Tyson. “But he is for you, maybe. That’s nice.” She dried the last teacup and put it down decisively. **“** I’d fuck him all the time too, if he did the fire for me,” she said “I hate doing the fire.” Tyson shrugged. Everyone hated doing the fire. It was dirty, tiresome and cold. “Well not fuck Nate, ugh, but you know,” she added and Tyson was offended. Why _not_ Nate? At least he had all his teeth. He managed to refrain from saying so but resolved to build up Nate’s prowess in bed until she, Mr. Johnson, and the rest of the town were convinced that Nate was the best there ever was.

“Nate’s very good at it,” Tyson said severely. “And I don’t mind. It only takes a moment.” He assumed Nate, thoughtful in so many ways, would make a point of getting the act over as quickly as possible. Marnie looked confused but Tyson felt sure he’d convinced her. Virgins weren’t doing it all the time, obviously, so if _they_ did it all the time, Nate was no virgin. She’d never guess. “We do it all the time,” he added for good measure.

“Do you really?” Marnie said. “How many times a day?” 

Tyson did some quick math. Dozens had to be at least two dozen, so twenty four divided by six not seven because obviously you couldn’t do it on Sunday, that was the Lord’s day, was four, and he rounded up a little for verisimilitude. “Four or five times a day, sometimes more,” Tyson said with what he thought was a nice breezy nonchalance. “You know.” Marnie looked impressed and Tyson was pleased with himself. Marnie looked at Nate consideringly again.

“That’s an awful lot,” she said doubtfully. “He’s very young and maybe he doesn’t know he shouldn’t be troubling you so. No wonder you got the vapours.” She drummed her fingers on the kitchen bench and turned to Tyson again. “You say Nate’s nice?” she asked, and Tyson was so glad to have a question he could answer truthfully that he didn’t pause to wonder why she was asking but just started to blab. He told her all about Nate buying him food and encouraging him to eat it, about Nate forgiving him again and again when he faltered or failed in his duties, and about his concern for Tyson and the baby’s health.

“Anyone would do that,” she said, dismissing his praise. “And I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

Tyson didn’t want her to go away thinking Nate was anything less than a good husband and a good Alpha, the best he’d ever known. He thought for a moment, then, glancing at the Alphas to be sure they were still distracted, he whispered to her, telling her of how Nate slept curled around him every night; how Nate held his hand when they went for walks and sometimes let go of it to bound ahead but always returned to happily catch it up again and match Tyson’s slower, newly portly pace, how Nate saved all the cream and condensed milk for Tyson. “Sometimes he kisses me, here,” he said, and showed her the place on the inside of his wrists. “And he says the baby is his,” he said slowly, “though it’s not.”

“Yeah, that's more like it,” she said begrudgingly. “And he never grabs you, or gives you a slap if you don’t want to?”

“No!” Tyson said, though he was still a little worried about exposing Nate’s softness. She was strangely concerned about Nate’s handling of him, Tyson thought, and then it occurred to him perhaps she was speaking from personal experience and he was moved. She was newly married and he understood discipline varied from family to family; many of the men here were very lax. Perhaps her father had been gentle, and perhaps she was not yet accustomed to being disciplined by her Alpha. “Does Mr. Johnson whack you hard?” he said, taking her hand. Alpha Johnson was even larger than Nate and Tyson recalled being concerned a couple days ago when he’d thought he was about to discipline him. Alpha Johnson seemed very fond of Marnie but he might not even know his own strength. “You have to go down at the first slap,” he said, offering her his many years of experience. “Just hit the floor and stay down.” Marnie gave him a look of scorching contempt and made a face to convey the unlikelihood of this.

“Erik could _try,_ ” she said. “But he wouldn’t like the result.” She turned towards the table the Alphas sat at. “Erik!” she said. “Tyson wants to know if you whack me.”

“Shut up, woman,” Alpha Johnson yelled across the room, seemingly entirely unconcerned by the question. “Don’t interrupt my drinking.”

“ _You_ shut up,” Marnie called back and Alpha Johnson turned his head towards her and stood up. The chair legs squeaked ominously as he rose to his full height and then ostentatiously cracked his knuckles as he strode across the room.

“I like my cock where it is,” he said to her affectionately, taking her face in his enormous hands, then bending forward and kissing her. “I reckon I whack you, I wake up without it in the middle of the night.”

“That’s right,” Marnie said cheerfully, kissing him back. Tyson stared at them with amazement. He would not have thought the irritable Mr. Johnson was so indulgent, but there you were, he supposed. He shuffled away from where Marnie and Mr. Johnson stood and looked over at Nate. Nate saw him and waved him over. 

“They’re just joking,” Nate said but Tyson didn’t see what there was to joke about in this and he was relieved when they dropped the subject. A little bit of company went a long way, he felt. Still, it had been pleasant to have someone other than an Alpha visit, and he didn’t dodge when she hugged him goodbye. 

“I’ll tell Erik to talk to Nate,” she whispered as she hugged him. “Don’t worry,” she said bossily as she patted his back. “There’s no reason you have to do it quite so often as _that_.”

“No, I, what?” he said. He wasn’t sure what she meant but it was too late. She waved confidently as they climbed into their wagon, and Tyson waved feebly back. Oh dear.

***

After they left Nate sat down at the table to repair equipment he needed the next day and Tyson surreptitiously watched him while he cleaned the kitchen. Nate was making one of his bizarre and unfortunate faces as he was focused on a task, grimacing as he pushed the awl through the thick leather. “What are you doing?” Tyson asked as he sat at the table, kitchen clean and swept. Nate just looked up briefly from the tack and gave him a fond look and a fleeting smile.

“Fixing bridle,” Nate said. “You look nice,” he added, looking back down at his work, the heavy waxed thread slowly knitting the leather back together. “I like your hair.”

“Thanks,” Tyson said. He had his hair up in an old German crown, a hairstyle for a married Omega, different from the simple Russian style he normally wore and he hadn’t thought Nate would notice. The Orthodox didn’t allow the fancier braids so Tyson had never had a chance to move to married styles, a loss he had found hard to bear when he first married but something that had rapidly been subsumed by larger problems. Lately it had occurred to him he could, if he wanted, wear those styles now and then finally he had. No one in Denver understood what his hair style meant aside from marking him as Omega, but he knew. If he had stayed at home, Jamie would have helped him that first week and they would have made a day of it, fussing and pinning until each braid was perfect then gathering chaperones and walking down the boardwalk hand in hand so all the Community could see, Tyson Barrie was married, a grown up Omega, a pearl within its shell, perfect and beautiful and untouchable, bringing luck and the Lord’s favour to his husband. It was shameful to look for praise or make personal remarks and bad luck besides, so Tyson’s husband would never, ever have told him he looked nice or offered a compliment but Jamie would have said he looked fine, and his husband would have, perhaps, had a particular absence of criticism to offer and if very pleased by Tyson’s beauty and the status it brought might have told Tyson to buy a scarf or blouse to complement his hair. Perhaps days later it would have gotten back to Tyson that his husband had bragged on his good looks, or maybe his housekeeping, or submission, and he would have known he was pleased with him.

There was only Nate to see him now, and Nate just flicked another look up at him and said, “It’s different. Pretty. This way’s got more twiddly bits.” Nate liked his hair, Tyson knew. Twice now Nate had asked Tyson to take it down or to let Nate take it down, and once, last week, Tyson chose to let Nate find him with it down, sitting in the sun on the porch around the time Nate always came home, letting it dry after a wash. Nate had ridden Molly right up to the foot of the stairs and made distracted chat for half an hour still seated on the horse even though the usual routine of chores and supper needed doing and Molly kept sighing and looking pointedly at the barn. Tyson knew that if he were a better Omega, he’d use this power to sway Nate, to acquire something to make his life easier or keep Nate that sweet but he couldn’t think what that would be; Nate encouraged him to eat whatever he wanted, let him go outside, and didn’t discipline him. He’d shown Tyson where he kept the small amount of cash they had in hand, and said he could use it; last week he had returned home from the Olsons with his hat full of dried apples because Tyson mentioned he liked them, and when Tyson knocked over the entire woodpile, Nate had simply sighed, rolled his eyes, and spent the afternoon showing Tyson how to build it back up again properly. Most meaningfully, Nate didn't grab at Tyson; he kissed him, he cuddled him in bed, he yelled at Tyson from across the room to bring him the soap while he was lounging in the bath and scandalously displaying his bare upper body and his lower legs sticking out of the tub, but he didn't grab, he didn't leer, and Tyson was gradually learning how to live in a space that allowed them to touch, rather than skittering away from him. He didn’t know what else he might ask for. Tyson hadn’t had anyone he could touch freely since Jamie and he was starting to relish the chance, patting at Nate surreptitiously in the night, his hands creeping up Nate’s arms where they wrapped around him, sketching his leg where he’d thrown it over Tyson’s. Nate was still a young man and thin, though not quite scrawny, but he had muscles all over, long rangy muscles that Tyson liked to explore; his arms, his shoulders, his upper thighs which were intriguingly hairy, and, Tyson knew from feeling them, absolutely rock solid muscle. There was barely any fat on Nate, though he was quite broad in the beam, suggesting more muscle to come. Tyson smiled at him and Nate stared back at him, transfixed, and then stabbed his finger with the awl. “Shit!” Nate said but he didn’t get mad at Tyson. “You’re too pretty,” Nate said, “I can’t concentrate.” Tyson doubted it was him; more likely it was the beer Nate had with Mr. Johnson.

“Sorry,” Tyson said, but he didn’t really mean it. He liked when Nate told him he was pretty. Nate told him _a lot_ and stared at him moonily, not something Tyson was raised with but he didn’t think he minded. 

“I’m so soft for you,” Nate said, reaching out to toy with one of Tyson’s braids. “Did you know I never kissed anyone before?”

“What?” Tyson said, astonished. Even the Observant girls, subject to less stringent Integrity rules or at least less stringent oversight, would occasionally steal a kiss before marriage. Surely Nate, with his muscles and kindness and cheer had done the same? It appeared not. 

“No, I never did,” Nate said, ducking his head and examining the end of Tyson’s braid very intently. “AmIalright?” he asked, so quickly Tyson couldn’t catch it. 

“What?” Tyson said and Nate glanced up at him and then back down at the braid, shy.

“Am I alright at it?” Nate said and Tyson boggled at him. He laughed, which from the look on Nate’s face was the wrong thing to do, and then he scrambled to make amends. He grabbed one of Nate’s hands and squeezed it.

“I like kissing you,” Tyson said shyly. “I never thought - it’s like I hoped it might be, but better, and I like you and I never want to kiss anyone else.” He carefully didn't reference his past experiences. He had been dealt to a man he didn’t know at eighteen to further his father’s business and gotten the worst of that bargain but Nate was different; Nate had simply stepped in to save him without counting the cost then asked if he could kiss him but asked for nothing more, and carefully said nothing of love because he knew Tyson didn't want to hear it. They had been forced together but if Tyson could choose, he’d choose Nate all over again. Kissing Nate was a revelation. Tyson had imagined before he was married what it would be like, but he had never imagined the press of their bodies, the way Nate would feel solid and safe against him, his hands on Tyson’s lower back, keeping him steady. “I think,” Tyson said, pushing himself because he knew Nate wanted to hear it, “I think you’re awful nice, and you look fine in that shirt and I’d marry you again.” He stopped there. He didn't say that sometimes he wondered what Nate’s cock looked like, that he wanted to see Nate naked again, that he was panicked and excited and flattered at the thought that Nate might think of loving him. “I’m glad you’re my husband.” He wouldn’t normally say so much but he wanted Nate to understand. He’d never done anything so nice as kiss Nate, and every time he thought he’d found the boundaries of kissing and touching Nate introduced something new, more pleasurable than the last. Tyson had assumed Nate knew what he was doing, that he’d at least kissed some girl or two behind a barn. Nate was tall, well liked in town and had all his teeth. He wasn’t rich or from a powerful family but his moosehide chaps were very well fitting and the girls turned to look as he walked by and tittered when he passed. “You never?” Tyson said, disbelieving. 

“Well they didn’t seem to be lining up,” Nate muttered but he was blushing as he looked down and smiling a little; Tyson could see he was pleased by the compliments.

“Omegas are lucky,” Tyson said, squeezing Nate’s hand again, and Nate shot him a grateful look. “You’re just for me, and _I’m_ lucky.” Exhausted by all this emotional talk, and the many visitors over the last week, Tyson withdrew to get ready for bed. 

He was glad to climb into bed that night, but a little hesitant too. Nate had drunk four large glasses of beer with Mr. Johnson, three more than Tyson had ever seen him take, and then finished the jug after they left and Tyson was a little wary. Technically the Observant didn’t drink aside from the occasional celebratory glass at weddings which simply meant the Observant were either ostensibly stone sober or so drunk they were unable to hide it and Tyson had been taught strong drink turned men to beasts. Nate didn't seem very beastly though; he simply fumbled at his suspender buttons and then looked pitifully at Tyson. 

“I can’t get these things undone,” he said with dignity, and then ruined it by giggling. Tyson moved forward to help him. “Oh thanks,” Nate said, surprised, as Tyson began to unbutton him. “Hey.” He leaned forward and kissed delicately at Tyson’s temple, and ear, and then just as Tyson had paused to enjoy it, Nate planted his hands hard on Tyson’s ass and pulled him firmly against him, Tyson’s hands trapped between them. Tyson squeaked.

_This is it,_ Tyson thought. Here was the beastliness Nate had been hiding, and he braced himself.

“Your bum is so nice,” Nate said with great gravity, large hands cupping Tyson’s cheeks. “I’d love to see it one day.” He sounded wistful, not angry or demanding. “Do you mind?” he said very politely to Tyson, and Tyson, his hands gripping Nate’s half unbuttoned shirt front, was unsure if Nate meant the action of his hands or what he just said. 

“No?” Tyson said, unsure. He supposed a man was free to desire to see his spouse’s bottom; even the Observant and Orthodox appreciated a fine bum. For truly observant men who stuck to prescribed mating, brief glances of their wive’s bottoms as they lifted their nightgowns up, just enough and no more, was all they were ever likely to get so there was a good trade among the Community in whispers about bums. 

“Mmm,” Nate said, still holding Tyson close. “I’d like to see all of you,” he confided to Tyson, his chin hooked over Tyson’s shoulder so he could look down and see his own hands on Tyson’s bottom. “Spread out naked on the bed, one day,” he said dreamily, between kisses to Tyson’s neck. “And then I’d kiss you, everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Tyson said anxiously. Nate liked to kiss on the jaw and neck and behind Tyson’s ears, innovations Tyson had never considered until he married Nate; once Nate had undone the top button of Tyson’s shirt and kissed the skin at the base of the V, but they’d never been naked together or done more than kiss and Tyson didn't think he wanted to. His shoulders tightened at the thought of being _naked_ in the sight of one another and where that might lead. Besides, where else was there to kiss?

“Everywhere,” Nate said firmly, and gave Tyson a pat on the ass and stepped back. “But not today, huh? Not unless you want to.” Tyson’s shoulders dropped with relief. He didn't want to take his clothes off and he didn't want to have marital relations but he did want Nate to keep kissing him and he’d liked it when Nate had touched the bare skin of his lower back, somewhere that seemed relatively unthreatening. Nate let him - no, Nate _invited_ him - to touch anywhere he wanted to, but so far Tyson had limited himself to Nate’s chest and arms. Those he had liked, though, the smooth muscle of Nate’s arms and the way his stomach clenched and rippled when Tyson touched his belly. Sometimes when they were kissing he smoothed the palm of his hand over Nate’s lower stomach and thought about what it would be like to slip it below the waistband of his long johns. He thought about it now as he helped Nate undo his suspender buttons and then the rest of his shirt. His trouser fly Nate was going to have to manage himself; Tyson had no interest in going below the waist, he’d decided, but he did wonder what it would be like to have Nate’s hands on _his_ chest. 

“You could put your hand under my shirt,” Tyson blurted out and Nate’s face just lit up, delighted.

“Can I?” he said, stepping back in, but not as close. “Up the front?” He traced the edge of Tyson’s collar with one finger. “You can for me too,” Nate said belatedly. 

“Would you - would you take your shirt off?” Tyson asked. He wanted to touch Nate’s arms, and maybe the side of his neck where the shoulders flowed up into it. Nate slept shirtless every night - he didn't have a night shirt so he’d have to sleep in his dirty shirt from the day or crumple a new, clean one, and Tyson had seen and touched him many times but this felt more intentional, both of them still standing and the lantern on rather than under the covers in the dark. Nate grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it off over his head. Tyson trailed one hand down the length of Nate’s torso, from shoulder to chest to stomach and then a finger along the waistband of his pants and Nate shuddered. He bent to kiss Tyson and slowly slipped one hand under Tyson’s shirt, resting first at his waist and then sliding along his ribs. Still kissing, his thumb skimmed over Tyson’s nipple and Tyson jolted and gripped at Nate’s waistband to steady himself, fingers curling under it to brush against - well. At first he wasn’t sure what he was touching; there was flesh, warm and firm where he had expected nothing but then Nate made a punched out wheezing noise and Tyson realised what was happening. He snatched his hand away and Nate broke the kiss and rested his forehead on Tyson’s shoulder.

“Gah,” Nate said, and then just turned right around and marched outside. He did this every so often, usually after they’d been kissing for a while but not always; once Tyson had been just sitting at the table, sucking on a stick of candy and looked up to see Nate at the door still wearing his hat and chaps, staring at him intently. They had gazed at each other in silence for a moment, then Tyson gave the stick one more lick, and Nate gave a full body shudder and walked right back out. Very odd. He’d done it several times when Tyson was kneeling to help him with his chaps, and once when he came home unexpectedly during the day and caught Tyson in the bath. Tyson had never figured out why Nate did it but he didn't seem mad so Tyson didn't worry about it. Many things Alphas did were mysteries to him, and he simply finished getting ready then climbed into bed. Sure enough, Nate returned sleepy and cheerful and shucked off down to his long johns. Tyson flipped back the covers and moved the stone hot water bottle so Nate wouldn’t burn his toes.

“You’re so good to me,” Nate said happily and squirmed around until he’d got Tyson how he liked him, tucked up against him and cradled in the curve of his body. “You got enough pillow?” Nate asked, and without waiting for an answer plumped it a bit for him. It wasn’t as helpful as he thought: he whacked the pillow enthusiastically enough he lofted Tyson’s head right into the air and practically fetched him a crack across the earhole but it was well intentioned. “Alright?” Nate said and gave his usual sigh of relaxation. That night, though, he didn't fall immediately into sleep and said, “That was a good supper baby, thanks. I liked the pie.” Apparently tipsy Nate was chatty. Suddenly he sat up and patted at the blankets. “Did you get the new ones?” he asked. The question had the urgency of the half drunk and Nate was peering into the dark, trying to see the bedclothes but failing.

“Yeah,” Tyson said, bemused. He had aired them out for a day then put them on the bed in the afternoon and if they hadn’t already blown the lantern out, Nate would have been able to see that for himself. One of them was a Hudson’s Bay four point, white with Queen Anne stripes and he’d put that on top. It amused him; traditionally Omegas used their pure white marriage blanket for the first year after marrying and this was similar enough it seemed fitting and with the stripes different enough it seemed fitting again. His original had been forgotten in their hurried departure from Victoria and he didn’t miss it. Nothing good had happened to him under that blanket.

“Oh good,” Nate said, collapsing bonelessly back into bed. “I traded with Zads because I wanted you to be warm.” He squirmed under the covers and pulled Tyson down too. “Are you warm enough?” he asked. 

“I am, Alpha, thanks,” Tyson said. The weight of the four new blankets and his old quilt was enough that he was comfortably squashed into the mattress. Nate had emptied and then refilled the mattress with new straw the previous week and then they had laid Tyson’s down featherbed over that and made the bed, ready for winter. Nate had never slept on a featherbed but was rapidly converted and he stretched out then, enjoying the softness and warmth.

“God,” he said, a long, drawn out moan of pleasure. The featherbed was a remnant of Tyson’s trousseau, six inches thick, covered with mulberry silk and crackled pleasantly as it embraced the sleeper; Tyson had no idea what it had cost but a great deal. “Good,” Nate said, slightly muffled. He had his face shoved into the back of Tyson’s neck and his breath smelled of beer. “But all the time? Are you warm enough all the time?” He sounded very serious, as drunks often were. “I want you to be warm all the time,” he went on. “Warm and cozy and full and happy, and I want the baby to be warm, too.” He fussed with the blankets and pulled them up closer to Tyson’s neck. “D’you think the baby is warm?” Nate asked, sounding very concerned. 

“Probably,” Tyson said, bemused. It wasn’t _cold_ , anyway, he’d be able to feel that, surely?

“Yeah, good,” Nate said, putting his hand over Tyson’s belly and kissing Tyson on the cheek. “You’re very clever to have the baby in the summer,” he said, giving Tyson a great deal of undeserved credit. “Babies that come in the winter tend to die.” Tyson didn't know what to say to that, so he was silent. “Though summer babies get the summer diarrhea, too,” Nate mused. “And die,” he added unnecessarily. “We’ll be careful, though; Ma’ll help and we’ll scald everything and I’ll bring you nuts and cream and eggs and stout and we’ll make sure you have lots of milk so we don’t have to feed the baby anything else.” Tyson was rigid with embarrassment. He wasn’t entirely certain he knew what Nate was talking about but he feared he did. “It’s the ones that get dry nursed or fed pap that get the scours,” Nate said. “And die,” he added, patting Tyson’s belly as if to reassure him. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll make lots of milk.”

“How nice,” Tyson said faintly. He didn't think he was going to make any milk, because he’d be long dead of humiliation. 

“And everyone in town can go fuck themselves,” Nate went on, sounding drowsy. “That’s _my_ baby and it’ll be nice and fat so it doesn’t die.” He sort of harrumphed approvingly at his own certainty. “And warm!” he added. “He can wear that little cap Marnie brought.” There was a pause. “And I’ll make him a little Moses basket over the winter, and he can sleep in it next to the stove.” Another, longer pause. “But not too close!” Nate said. “Can’t let him get too close to the fire in case he - “

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Tyson said. He’d heard enough about the ways babies could die, and he wanted Nate to shut up.

“Yes he _will_ ,” Nate said, as if he defied anyone to say different. “And warm. But not too -”

“Right, right,” Tyson said, desperately trying to change the subject. “Like your brothers back home?” Nate’s younger brothers were a sturdy bunch and none of them had died; Nate was old enough he must remember them as infants. Mrs. MacKinnon ran their house like a military operation and they were all presumably warm and well fed. Maybe Nate would like to reminisce fondly about _his_ childhood, rather than listing off the many ways to die.

“Bud, if you think we’ve been warm and full the last three years, you’re off by a bit,” Nate snorted and Tyson was surprised. He imagined any home run by Mrs. MacKinnon to be cozy, at least. He knew the MacKinnons weren’t well off but Tyson was so used to being the best off in any setting that it all seemed the same to him; he didn’t think they were really _poor_. The furnishings were sparse, and he knew from off hand remarks their budget was stretched, but he had thought that meant more beans than they liked, not real hunger. He paused to think. Nate’s appetite was enormous and he’d visibly gained in the few months he and Tyson had lived together but Tyson had just put it down to youth

“I been sleeping in barns the last three years,” Nate said, with no hint of bitterness, just factual. “I did the horses and barn at Talbot’s to pay for my keep and I slept there too and if you think that’s warm in the winter you should think again. And then the farm burnt down and Rosie died and we lost our whole year’s harvest and then the next year they called me home early from my apprenticeship to work because they couldn’t do without me after Pa got his kidney trouble and I been sleeping in the loft with the rats ever since; don’t you remember? I told you that.” Tyson did remember Nate saying he’d been sleeping with the rats but he’d thought he was kidding or teasing Tyson. Nate seemed to take his silence as a criticism.

“I always ate twice a day at least,” Nate said defensively. “I got a fair share at Talbot’s and as much as my parents could find at home but the last year’s been…” He trailed off. “You know,” he said, but Tyson didn't know, not the same way Nate did. “They did the best they could.”

“Did you - did you have enough food?” Tyson asked, turning over to look at Nate, unexpectedly touched at the thought of Nate going hungry. 

“No,” Nate said, looking at him incredulously. “Of course not. Did you?”

“I - “ Tyson said. They had never spoken aloud about this but he had assumed Nate knew. “Not that last winter, no. And before that, I wasn’t _allowed -_ you know. We had enough, but I wasn’t supposed - I had to stay - you know.” He didn’t want to tell Nate; he didn’t want to list the punishments he’d lived through, the days and nights and weeks he’d spent hungry, the nights he’d cried from pain, the times he had been afraid it would be enough to break him, the times after that he had prayed that he _would_ break, that his fundamentally ungentle spirit would be changed and he would grow meek and compliant as he should be, all in the hopes that the hunger and fear and sorrow would end. “You know,” Tyson said.

“Yeah,” Nate said and rested his forehead against Tyson’s, which for some strange reason, although Nate couldn’t possibly understand what Tyson was getting at, was a real comfort.

“Sorry,” Tyson said, and he was. The thought of Nate hungry or cold disturbed him though he didn't really know why.

“What are you sorry for?” Nate said matter of factly. “I never ate so good as since I been with you and now I’m lying in four hundred dollars worth of down and kissing on the best looking person in Denver. They all say you’re lucky and it’s true.” It pleased Tyson to think he’d brought something useful to the marriage, a little bit of what he was supposed to be. What felt to him like poverty, a subsistence level farm, was to Nate unprecedented wealth. He shuffled closer to Nate and kissed him. They rarely kissed in bed; they kissed everywhere else, and they slept cuddled up together, but they didn’t usually kiss under the blankets with only their thin nightclothes to separate them. Tyson was beginning to trust Nate’s word on discipline and marital relations but kissing in bed still seemed perilous to him; or it had. Now he took hold of Nate’s shoulders and just enjoyed it as Nate kissed him softly, his arms around him. “Saw that cap Marnie gave you,” Nate said, patting gently at Tyson’s bump. “That was nice.” He sounded really pleased, the same way he always did whenever someone referenced the baby or his impending fatherhood. “I never thought I’ve have so fine a husband, and a baby to come and all,” Nate whispered. “You finding it a little easier to be married?” He sounded terrifyingly hopeful. Nate was normally cocky, always cheerful and kind, especially to Tyson, but undeniably cocky; now he sounded fragile, as if Tyson held his heart in his hands

“Yes,” Tyson said, quite certain, and it was true.

“Good,” Nate said. “I want you to be happy.”

“What else do you want?” Tyson asked, curious. Nate wanted so little.

“I want you to love me,” Nate said simply. Tyson had heard this from him before but it stumped him every time. 

“We don’t do that where I’m from,” Tyson said nervously. It wasn’t entirely true; people did, on occasion, grow to love one another after marriage, but it wasn’t widely discussed or particularly encouraged.

“You’re here now,” Nate said calmly. “Try.”

“Alright,” Tyson said, unsure. He liked Nate so very much but _love._ That seemed a distant and unlikely prospect.

“Would you have loved Mr. Landeskog?” Nate asked.

“I…” Tyson said, stymied. “I don’t know. I would have served him, I guess. I wasn’t meant to love Alpha Landeskog and he didn’t love me.”

“Well I’ll love _you_ , soon enough,” Nate said, as if it were obvious, at least to him, and a given.

“Will you?” Tyson said, half asleep and so relaxed the talk of love didn't worry him too much as he listened to Nate spin out their future. “What will you do then?”

“Same as now, “ Nate said, also half asleep. “But more, I suppose. Like now, but better.”

“Yeah?” Tyson murmured. Here, falling asleep in Nate’s arms, it didn't seem so worrying a prospect, more a natural progression.

“You’ll love me, and I’ll love you,” Nate said, and he sounded calm and certain in a way that made Tyson want to believe him. “And we’ll have this little baby, and then later, if you like, we’ll have some more.” Tyson made an encouraging noise. He liked to hear Nate talk about a happy, peaceful life, the two of them together like they were now, partners and good friends. “I’ll take care of you,” Nate said, “and you’ll take care of me. One day we’ll get old but first we’ll have lots of good times.”

“Like what?” Tyson asked. Most of his good times had been quiet moments without fear, little hidden pockets of time alone or with Jamie. Nate paused and Tyson thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep but then he spoke again.

“Soon the first big freeze’ll come, and I’ll show you how to make molasses candy in the snow,” Nate said. “And then Christmas and the winter, and we’ll be cozy here, just you and I. Then we’ll have the baby round Midsummer and that’ll be nice; you’ll be feeling better late summer, and we can go into town a while after the hay and show him off. Ma’ll be glad to see him and Pa loves babies, and the big girls can watch him for us. You won’t have to cook or clean and I’ll take you for a walk down the river every night.” Tyson murmured agreeably and Nate went on. “I’ll take you riding, next year,” Nate said slowly, as if he was imagining it. “We’ll go out a day into the hills and then sleep outside one night. We can spare the time, if EJ’ll feed the stock. I’ll show you the glacier up by St. Mary’s and then come back and it’ll just be you and me and the baby and we’ll have something special for supper and that’ll be a nice day.” He paused again, almost asleep. “And there’ll be weddings and birthdays and dances and we’ll go to those, a married couple. We’ll do a hundred things,” Nate said with assurance. “Together.”

Nate picked up one of Tyson’s hands and kissed the back of it and Tyson gave a happy sigh. He was warm in bed, tucked against Nate, certain that for this night, at least, he was safe from marital relations, belly full of food he liked and more to come tomorrow; nowhere on his body hurt. He liked Nate, so much, and if he couldn’t yet say he loved him he was at least in sympathy with Nate’s goal and maybe one day he would, if they simply carried on long enough as they were, and he relaxed into the moment happily. He kissed Nate’s hand back where their fingers were entwined. And it was at that moment, the most romantic of Tyson’s life, that Nate farted loudly and then laughed. Tyson jerked his hand away and tried to climb out of the bed but Nate pulled the covers up over Tyson’s head and held them there, blocking Tyson from any escape and laughing. Tyson considered, lightening fast - correct submission required he lie there breathing fart stink at Nate’s will - common sense and basic human dignity demanded he writhe about madly and push at any part of Nate he could reach, and so he did, Nate laughing wildly above him, safely outside the covers. Tyson rabbit punched Nate in the thigh and Nate just started laughing even harder. Nate was covered in muscle and very young; he was accustomed to roughhousing with siblings and working in the company of other young men. Being punched was nothing to him, and irritated at his lack of response, Tyson bit at his thigh, high up and inside where it should hurt. _That_ got a reaction; Nate practically levitated out of bed, clutching his hands over his crotch. “Uncle!” Nate shouted, half laughing, half serious. “Stop! No more biting or I’ll have to head to the porch again.” He’d pulled the blankets off Tyson in his escape and Tyson’s nightgown was rucked up high on his thighs, exposing a great deal of leg; both he and Nate realised it at the same time. Tyson froze. “Alright,” Nate said, sounding calm and unmoved although his eyes were fixed on Tyson’s legs. “Calm down, Mr. MacKinnon,” he said condescendingly and with one last lingering glance, drew Tyson’s nightshirt down for him and they settled down to sleep.

***

“What in the name of _God_ did you say to Marnie,” Nate said the following week, back from one last day working on the Johnson farm before the snow fell. “EJ’s just told me to lay off you - says I fuck you too much. Between that and the horse he thinks I’m some sort of pervert.” Tyson didn’t know what the horse had to do with it. “Seems to think I have some kind of hair trigger, too.” Nate said accusingly. “I call that awful rich,” he went on, getting worked up. “I don’t fuck you _at all_ ,” he said, overcome with the unfairness of it all, and stomped off to stable the horse. “Not even once!” he yelled back over his shoulder and Tyson could see he was concerned that EJ knew the truth.

“Sorry,” Tyson said once he returned. Nate was calmer but had a look on his face that suggested he was still deeply resentful both about the telling off and the fact that he couldn’t refute EJ with the truth. “Don’t worry,” Tyson said. “I didn’t tell them, I said we do it dozens of times each week.” Now Nate had a different look on his face.

“Dozens?” he said. “Is that actually what you said?”

“Dozens,” Tyson confirmed. “All the time, I said.”

“Dozens,” Nate repeated wonderingly. “Oh my God.”

“Was that wrong?” Tyson worried. Nate didn't seem too mad but you never knew. 

“Dozens,” Nate said again, laughing.

“Sorry,” Tyson said again, because he didn't know what else to say. Nate had been clear he didn't like kneeling and Observant apologies. 

“Dozens!” Nate said, humour apparently restored by the absurdity of it all. He did a sort of jig the few steps to Tyson, caught him by the hand and gave him a twirl that ended with Tyson pressed against Nate. “Dozens!” Nate said, laughing harder and Tyson looked up at him, pleased with the levity. “You’re such an idiot,” Nate said fondly. “What do you think I am?”

“What do _you_ think you are?” Tyson said without thinking . Alphas, in his experience, did not like quips at their expense or indeed, wit of any kind. It was his role to be silent and decorative, not make little jokes. But Nate surprised him like always. 

“Horny,” Nate said feelingly. “But EJ doesn’t know the half of it. I think I could go a dozen times in one _day_ , never mind a week.” Tyson just looked at him, nonplussed. He was not sure what to make of that remark. As he looked up at Nate, several large snowflakes fell between them. “Oh hey,” Nate said. “It’s starting to snow. That’ll be it, then.” He leaned down and kissed Tyson. “No more visitors,” he said, “Just us.” 


	2. Addendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate does his best but a man's got to whine. Mercifully his Christmas gift means the daisies are safe.

“Joe,” Nate said, leaning over Molly’s broad back ready to leave, the sound pulled out of him, pleading. “If I don’t get to fuck something I think I’m going to die.” Sakic just laughed. He'd laughed at Nate every time he’d seen him since Nate had first come to him, desperate for direction.

“You got Rosie Palm and her five lovely daughters,” he said. “Shut your bitching. You go home and you whack it before you kiss him and after and anytime in between you get a chance and maybe you’ll get to touch a titty in a while but maybe not. That’s how it goes when you’re courting.”

“I don’t think he has any titties,” Nate said doubtfully and Sakic laughed again.

“Seems like the kind of thing you might look into _before_ you get married,” he said, but it wasn’t mean and Nate told him the truth.

“I don’t really care about titties,” he said. “I’m more of a downstairs man if you take my meaning.”

“Oh,” Sakic said, and looked at him appraisingly. “Huh. Well, he got any of that, then?” Here he made a vague gesture Nate took to mean ‘a cock’.

“Dunno,” Nate said glumly. 

“Jesus,” Sakic said. “This is why you shouldn’t get married so young. Heard you didn’t even know his first name in the church.” 

“Yeah,” Nate said. “That’s what my Ma said too.”

“I _bet_ she did,” Sakic said. He looked like he was pretty pleased he hadn’t been the one forced to listen to what Kathy MacKinnon had had to say on that topic, and Nate frowned at him. 

“Well, but _when_ ,” Nate said, and he was trying very hard not to whine but from Joe’s look he wasn’t sure he was successful. “A few more weeks?”

“Weeks?” Sakic said, “Weeks? You’ll be lucky if you get in there in _months._ You just check back in with me this time next year.”

“Next _year_ ,” Nate said, conscious now he really was whining. “I’ll be dead. I’ll die of blue balls.”

“No you won’t,” Sakic said. “We all lived through it.”

“Joe,” Nate said. “Joe,” soul deep frustration writ on his face. “He likes to sit on my lap and kiss me and then he just puts his head on my shoulder and looks at me all happy like and his cheeks are red and he’s so sweet but all I’m thinking is _I’m going to come in my pants if you wriggle one more time, I want to fuck you, I want to fuck you I want to fuck you._ ” Sakic just shrugged at him, unmoved. “I keep catching him looking at me when I’m in the bath,” Nate said. “I’m sleeping in the same bed as him every night and his nightgown is see through but I’m not allowed to touch him under his clothes. He undoes my chaps kneeling with his face in my crotch. How much more of this do I have to take?” He ran his hands into his hair and pulled at it in frustration. He paused and looked over. Sakic was hunched over, wheezing with laughter. “It’s _not funny_ Joe,” Nate said, annoyed. “He’s _so_ pretty, and _so_ nice, and he would let me do anything, anything at all, and he’d hate it.”

“Well, then,” Sakic said, straightening up. “There’s your answer. If he hates it don’t do it.”

“I’m definitely going to die, Joe,” Nate said, hands fisted and shoulders hunched, a real cri de coeur, ripped from his soul. “I don’t even know what he thinks I’m doing - I keep having to race out of the room at night. I done it so much off the porch I think I’ve killed some of the daisies.”

“Never killed anyone yet,” Sakic said mercilessly. “ ‘Cept the daisies, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Nate said, sighing massively and throwing himself in a dispirited way onto Molly.

“Go on,” Sakic said encouragingly. “You’re on the right track - just keep on and he’ll come around.” Nate sighed again gustily, and took up his reins.

“Thanks Joe,” Nate said. “I’ll see you soon.” He clucked to Molly and started off but then he reined her back to a halt and leaned down. “Don’t tell anyone about the daisies, hey?” he said. “I don’t want to hear about it.” Sakic was hunched over again, helpless with laughter, and just waved him on. Nate scowled but Sakic didn’t even notice so he rode on, headed home. 

***

“You look more cheerful,” Sakic observed six weeks later, while Nate was helping haul a load of wood to the inevitable newcomer who had sadly underestimated. There was one each year. “Daisies doing alright?”

“Shut your mouth Joe,” Nate said prissily. “None of your business.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Sakic said, but he didn’t sound offended.


End file.
